


Changing Tides and Tribulations

by dliriously



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Ford's extensive set of skills, Gen, Post-Weirdmaggedon, Stan is king of sunlight naptime, Stangst, Stanley being a conman of all sorts, bill being a little mind tease, booze? oh yeah. booze, deff lots of anger and punches, depression and self-doubts, everyone will be okay....probably, fear runs deep here, grunkle bonding, is this really happening or is this an illusion?, magic Ford is magical, platonic love and fluff tho, sail away my crotchy old men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-04
Updated: 2016-06-23
Packaged: 2018-07-12 06:52:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 49,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7090357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dliriously/pseuds/dliriously
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ford is forever plagued with nightmares; Stan, with lapsing memory. Together, they have to overcome their greatest fears, or together be destroyed by them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The tangled Webs we Weave

**Author's Note:**

> This is a xposting of the original story that has been published on ff.net (https://www.fanfiction.net/s/11885191/1/Changing-Tides-and-Tribulations) for a little while now. I'll be putting up the already written chapters every few days here - but if you want to read it to the point it's at now, follow the above link.
> 
> This chapter includes triggers for: nightmares with violence in them, and booze. So much booze.

The scent was unlike anything that had graced his nostrils - sweet, sticky, poisonous, with a sickening edge of musky fear. Fear that coursed through veins like ice, that dripped with deadly intent. The air was silent, like the calm before the storm - nothing moved, and he could barely force his lungs to expand to puff out the short burst of breath he was holding. His hands trembled as he buttoned the cuffs at his raw, angry wrist that oozed with platelets and anti inflammatories, his immune reaction to the too-tight bangles that had cuffed his hands at a dangerous angle behind his back, for how long, he didn't know. His eyes burned with focus, focus!, he told himself as he shook all the swirling doubts from his head.

  
What if he notices? What if the kids notice? What if they weren't in time? What if the all-seeing eye pried behind their easy costume switch? What if the demon revoked his deal? What if the world was already dismantled, and the barrier was a coy ploy from an ill-conceived insane mind? What if, what if, what if...  
  
The light changed, a looming shadow entering the towering castle, holding two struggling children. The eye glowed red with wicked intent. "Times up, Stanford! And I'm not a fan of playing your game, so how about I kill one of the kids for the heck of it?"  
  
If Bill could grin, he knew he would be seeing yellowed, predatory teeth as the sweet girl was plucked into thin air, suspended by her own chains. He couldn't speak, couldn't cry out as she screamed and pleaded, begged for her life as the demon cocked a clawed finger like a gun and shot blue fire through her chest.  
Blood. Blood, and tears, and fluids unlike anything else. And bone. Glistening, white bone chiseled outward like a gnawing mouth that caged an exposed and damaged heart that struggled to continue beating. Small lungs expanded once, twice, shimmering in visceral glory, small bags of air that just couldn't keep up. It was only when that heart fluttered still and tearstained brown eyes failed to implore that he found his voice.  
  
And screamed.

\---

He woke with a start, jacknifing upward, a scream bubbling from his chapped and bitten lips, catching in his raw throat as his eyes flew wildly around the room. He was soaked, a sheen of sweat drenching him in what he could only imagine to be a fitful sleep. _Calm down_ , he told himself rationally, willing his erratic breathing to slow as his head swam from hyperventilation. He closed his eyes as he counted to ten, matching his breathing with each second, in and out until the rush of blood had died in his head and his hands started to still, but he couldn't ease the shaking inside, the sick feeling that roiled his empty stomach and sent bile burning to the back of his throat. He couldn't ease his racing heartbeat, or the tension coiling his muscles, ready to strike--and at what?

  
"Bill's gone," the mumbled breathlessly to himself, letting his head fall into his hands as he wiped away sweat. "It's just a dream."

  
But, dream as it may be, Ford pushed himself into a stand and quietly made his way up to the attic, rolling his heels to be silent like survival in many leery dimensions had taught him. He popped open the door and could make out the outlines of the two figures tucked into bed; Dipper with a mystery book tucked under his arm, mouth wide open and snoring, and Mabel turned completely around in bed with her feet propped up on the headboard and long curls flowing off the edge like a mahogany waterfall, pet pig snuggled up on her pillow. He let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding as he slumped into the doorframe, relief easing his tight muscles.

  
Of course they were okay, of course it was just another bad night terror, the illusions cast by a wounded and tortured mind. He, himself, had tucked the twins into bed, giving the boy so much like himself when he was younger a low-glow nightlight that made for excellent late-night reading that wouldn't keep his sister awake, and read a peculiar princess story to the girl with braces that had fallen asleep with her face pressed to his thigh.

  
He stayed long enough to watch the steady rise and fall of the twins' chest as they breathed before turning and clamoring back down the stairs. It had only been a few days since the near end-of-the-world, a few fretful days of restorations and cleaning by the townsfolk. And he knew the nightmares were just a part of him, had been, for decades. But how closely they resembled the reality they had all lived through threw him off, distorted what was real and what wasn't. It was confusing, and frustrating, and he didn't know what could be believed.

  
He found himself in the kitchen, pouring a stiff whiskey over ice, and relished in the painful burn of the alcohol sliding across raw, hoarse vocal cords. The pain meant that this was real, that he had survived, that everything he went through was worth it if those kids were safe. _That_ he believed in, because he had no idea what fear truly was until those twins were in danger. He had been through Hell and back, it seemed, those thirty years dimension jumping through the portal. He had encountered beings that wanted him dead, wanted him captured, wanted him for worse, but he had never been afraid. Stanley had always said he was reckless in his decisions, and maybe that was true. He never feared for himself, he found ways to survive and overcome, and if he ended up with a scar or two, well, it could've been worse. Loneliness was something he was just accustomed to.

  
It all changed, seeing those frightened faced in the destroyed basement that fateful day. It changed as he learned the quirks and personalities of his great niece and nephew. Dipper, the curious boy that learned bravery and stood his ground for his sister, thru and thru. Whom may had been a little anxious, a little sweaty, and pined for an older woman with all his heart. Mabel, the fascinating girl that flourished in arts and crafts and could light a stormy night with a colorful smile. But, she too, held a depth beneath the silly exterior that Ford had learned of the first night he caught her sneaking around at three in the morning, pacing, fretting with tears in her bubbly eyes that maybe she wasn't enough to keep Dipper around any longer, not with his "stupid crush on Great Uncle Ford". Watching those twins reminded him of his own twin.

  
"You shouldn't make a habit of that stuff," a gruff voice chastised, startling Ford. He whipped around, hand going to the holster at his hip, before recognizing the unshaven face that mirrored his own and the hands placed upward, palms out, a wry smile on his face as he cocked a brow at the defensive position Ford found himself in. "Sheesh, Sixer. I know my ugly mug is scary, but damn."

  
Ford shrugged, looking sheepish as his hand fell away from under his coat. "I guess that would make me scary as well, it would seem." He raised his glass, watching Stan's brows furrow in irritation as he took another gulp of the golden liquid, daring his twin to say something.

  
Instead, Stan pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and slumped into it, pulling the whiskey to him and straight-shooting from the bottle. He gasped and cough, the burn incredible. "Jesus, Ford, how old is this shit?"

  
"It's been in my office since the late seventies, so," he shrugged coyly, fighting the twitching of his lips as Stan's eyes watered from the burn.

  
"It's awful," Stan choked out, pushing the bottle away as he got up and gulped a glass of water. He threw the younger-appearing man a glare. "Y'could've warned me, you shit."

  
Ford swallowed his retort grimly as he turned back to the bottle and took a swig directly, much the way Stanley had. But the burn only reminded him that this was now, this was here, and it was over. Because he had wanted to tell Stan that he should have known how old it was, considering he'd been living in this house twice as long as Ford had, but everything wasn't normal yet, everything hadn't been piece together. Stan still had lapses in memory, as much as the con-artist tried to appear normal for the kids' sake. The first night Ford had caught him blankly walking around the gift shop, callused fingers gingerly brushing the bizarre displays, looking like a broken man, Ford had fought the guilt that burned at the back of his eyes.

  
The kids were easier to remember, it seemed, due to how recently they had entered the man's life. Soos and Wendy, too, came quickly with only small bouts of confusion on the day-to-day. Sometimes Stan struggled, sometimes it seemed like he lost everything he remembered for moments, before it all came back. Ford wasn't sure whom it was harder for, the man trying desperately to remember who he was, or them, struggling to remind him. And, unfortunately, they had a long history, despite the 30 year absence, and not everything came back. Sometimes Stan would round a corner when Ford was cooking breakfast and slug him unmercifully in the shoulder "for that one time in high school when you chewed the shit out of my favorite pen" or "that time you told Ma I loved creamed corn, you bastard", but he seemed puzzled about what could have driven them so far apart.

  
"Why're you even awake, Stanley?" Ford asked as the memories in his head faded around the edges as the alcohol pooled through his veins and numbed the stabbing pain deep within.

  
"Heard you scream....nightmares again?" he asked coolly, concern flitting across his face as he leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms, lips pursed as Ford took another long sip from the fermented whiskey.

  
"Always," he replied, running a hand through his hair. "They never bothered me before. Bill could torture me to his pleasantest delight, and I'd wake up, caught off guard with pain a distant memory, but it didn't affect me. The only time my dreams did was when--" He stopped short, and shook his head, not willing to admit that the dreams his brother were hurt haunted him time and time again. "It doesn't matter. Now it's the kids. Kids, Stanley. How do you recover from that? Watching two innocent kids get tortured and killed? It's jarring. It's insane. And it won't stop."

  
"Makes you feel useless, huh? Weak, like there's nothing you can do to stop it, prevent it. Yeah, I've had my share of those dreams, too," Stanley offered nonchalantly, eyes turned down to the cracked floorboards "But they're just dreams. I wake up, and the feeling sits in the pit of my stomach, but it's gone. It's gone, and you're--" The man stopped short and gave a half-hearted laugh to cover up the honest despair in those matching caramel eyes, until he looked up and fought the urge to laugh as Ford wavered in place, hands very still as they held onto the back of a chair, as if the ground was rocking. "Drunk, hot Belgian waffles, Sixer, you're drunk."

  
"Scientist don't get inebriated except on research and data, Knucklehead," he slurred, cursing himself for underestimating just how potent his 40 year old whiskey was.  
Stan snorted at the pathetic look Ford gave him, as if he was trying to be intimidating, standing there and swaying in place. With a chuckle he walked over, pulling his brother's arm around his shoulders, supporting the taller, lither man's weight against his side, despite the sputtered protest in a glutteral language that Stan didn't know. They started the walk toward Ford's room when--"Ow! Fuck, you pinched me you asshole."

  
"I'm capable of walking myself, you heathen," Ford mumbled defensively, pushing his brother, whom held fast despite the reddening of his cheeks in frustration. "Damnit, Stanley, you've done enough for me for a lifetime. You don't have to do this, too."

  
"Yeah, you're right," Stan said, rolling his eyes as he let go for the briefest moment, just enough for Ford to flounder his arms and windmill his way nearly into the wall, before grabbing hold once more. "But what kind of brother would I be then?"

  
"You just want to lord this over me in the morning," Ford growled as he let himself he led into his room and deposited onto the couch he used for the few hours he let himself get any rest. Stan tried to remove his heavy-duty boots, only to be kicked back onto his rump roughly as his brother shook his head wildly. "No, I need to stay prepared, in case I have to protect you."

  
"I'm really regretting not letting you crawl in here," Stanley mumbled under his breath as he pushed his whoozy brother back into the worn cushions and threw a tattered blanket that smelled of mothballs over him. He walked to the door and looked back as Ford's eyes fluttered shut and his breathing evened out--and it hit him. Not protect the kids, not protect this family, protect _you_.

  
"Goodnight, Sixer...and thanks," he managed, a small smile lighting the dark.

\---

It had only been two days before the nightmares took form again.

  
This time, Ford found himself in his familiar dreamscape, wheat fields swaying lightly in a warm, blustery summer breeze as tall, dark clouds rose from the horizon, swirling upward like an intimidating ice cream cone of the elements. The broken, dismantled portal shimmered with an ethereal glow from within, rather than the dead, gutted metal it typically resembled. He ignored the curiosity bubbling up within about the portal as his legs carried him to the creaking swingset of his childhood, and his six-fingered hands curled fast around the metal chains that jangled in the wind as he found himself swaying in time to the stalks of grain.

  
"Strange," he mumbled to no one as his legs kicked, coat fluttering behind him as he swung, higher and higher, looking out over the broken landscape. And then he saw it, a slight glean against the darkening skyline. He blinked, and it drew closer at a remarkable speed; blink, and there was an expanse of chain-link fencing, glittering in the greyscale world with a silhouette standing near. Blink, and his heart still, jumped to his throat as ice slid through his bloodstream and he screamed.  
"Stanley!"

  
And there his twin was, bound by blue dimly glowing chains, his trademark silken bowtie strapped across his mouth as a gag, suit jacket lost, hair a wild mess, brown eyes pleading. Ford tried to escape the swingset, but his hands wouldn't comply, stiff and frozen, leaving him swaying through the air despite his best efforts.

  
"Damnit! Stanley, Stanley, I'll save you, don't worry, I'll save you!"

  
A familiar, maniacal laugh cut through the landscape, echoing in the impossible emptiness, bouncing through his skull from all directions. "Well, well, well, well well! Ford thinks he can save you," a grating voice said as blue flames erupted from nothingness and Bill stared at the scientist wickedly, floating closer to the terrified looking Stan. His black claws reached out, passing under Stan's chin, close enough for a thin red line to appear on the man's neck and run bloody.

  
"Don't you touch him! You have no dominion here, you have no dominion anywhere, we defeated you!"

  
Bill's image shrugged. "You can defeat me again and again and again, Stanford Pines, but I'll forever haunt your memories. And those, you can't get rid of as easily."

  
"This is just a dream," Ford said, shutting his eyes against the image, shaking his head. "It's just a dream! You can't hurt me!"

  
"You so sure about that?" the voice asked with promise. Ford stilled at the chilling question and opened his eyes to the demon casually dragging claws down Stan's chest, eliciting a gagged scream that tore at Ford.

  
"Stop it, stop it... _please_!" Ford begged, bowing his head, tears sprouting in his eyes at the pleading look his brother sent him.

  
"You know, I never could figure out why you cared so much about a man that ruined your future!" Bill said in a sing-song croon, waving his hands through the air, images shimmering iridescent like a film reel. Ford watched as Stan decked him in the face just before the portal opened up, watched the terrified look of his brother scrambling to find a way, any way, to stop him from being swallowed up. Watched as he landed in an unfamiliar land, only to be attacked by beasts and nearly slaughtered. Watched, as he was shot by a plasma gun running as a fugitive through time-space. Watched as he pulled out a tear-stained, wrinkled photo of two young boys and hang his head as he hid dismally from acid rain that ate at the surrounding landscape. Watched as a young Stanley huffed as thunder tore from the sky and Ford climbed up into his brother's bunk, shaking. Watched as Stan laid out a few bullies just for making ugly comments about his extra fingers. Watched as his brother turned away, defeated, when he told him to leave at the end of summer.

  
"But that's okay, you do, which makes this my kind of fun!" Bill's voice said, snapping Ford's head upward as he watched in horror as the demon dove a hand through his brother's sternum, up, twisting and tugging. Ford swooned as bile marched up his throat at the abject horror written on Stanley's face, the pain that wretched his body into a tight coil, shaking, sweat beading on his face at the invasion of his body. Ford's body ached to help, but he couldn't get his damn hands to move, couldn't get his damn body to do anything other than watch as Bill wrung around in Stanley's chest cavity.

  
"You know what, IQ? I think this belongs to you," Bill said with a cackle as he ripped his hand out of Stan and threw something. Instinctively Ford reached out to grab it, finding his hands could move at last, and looked down with is head swimming at the piece of beating muscle in his hands, expelling the last bit of blood from the ventricles. Shaking, he looked up to see the image of Stan, head hung low, chest gaping open, blood pouring down his front, limply bound to the fencing, Bill perched in the arm with gallous blood dripping from his hands. Trembling, he dropped the fleshy heart, and did the only thing he could.

\---

Ford woke with his hands over his mouth, barely reaching the small trash can by his littered desk before falling to his knees weakly and losing his stomach in sick heaves. Even as bitter bile swelled in his throat and his stomach cramped with nothing left to give, he heaved. Sweat poured down his face, dripping onto his lenses as he shook, the images pounding at his fragile mind. He could still feel the sick warm muscle tremble in his hand, smell the pungent acid of perforated intestines.

  
"Shit," he managed as his stomach muscles contracted, sending a mouthful of bile into the trashcan, sputtering around the sour taste hanging on his tongue. "Shit, shit, shit."

  
His thoughts spun to his brother and he tried to stand, but his legs buckled under him as he shook, muscles warring and exhausted from the too-real nightmare. He cursed, lashing out and throwing a fist into the floor, jarring numbness marching to his elbow at the crack. He was terrified for his brother, but couldn't even find the strength to get up. Tears boiled in his eyes as he forced his quaking legs under him. Stanley was okay, Stanley had to be okay, it was just a dream, it was always just a dream, he told himself.

  
"Get a hold of yourself," he told himself, but his voice was too breathy, betraying how frightened he really was. Stanley would be in bed, just like he always was, just like the kids were when he had nightmares involving them. There was no reason to feel so...panicked, but he couldn't deny the choking feeling of his heart hammering in his throat at each shaky step he took towards Stan's bedroom.

  
What if Stan wasn't there, what if that awful dream was some form of reality, as his brother was dead? What if Ford was trapped in his own mind-bubble like Mabel had been? What if Stan was sucked into nothingness with the mind-erase gun and couldn't even function enough to breathe? What if Ford was alone, again, alone like he had been for years? What if, what if, what if...

  
He opened the door with a growing sense of panic as his eyes darted around the small room, straight out of the eighties, wood paneling, terrible wallpaper, and Stan. Relief washed through him and he choked back a sob as he gazed at his sleeping brother, mouth hanging open, arm thrown over the side of the bed, a puddle of dried spit pooled on his flat pillow. There was no denying that Stan was alive and well, as his jack-hammer snoring flitted through Ford's ears.

  
"Thank goodness," Ford choked in relief. He hadn't had a dream like that in ages, and it scared him to think of losing his brother, after finally having him back. So much so, he forwent the irritation he knew Stanley would have by being awoken, and walked over, timidly sitting on the edge of the bed as he shook Stan's shoulder.

  
"Stanley, wake up."

  
The man woke with a start, bleeting eyes staring around the darkness before landing on his brother. What Ford hadn't accounted for, was the fist that drew back and cracked him right in the jaw, sending the startled scientist over the edge and sprawling on the floor.

  
"What the Hell, Stanley?" he growled, pain drumming up his jaw and ringing in his ear.

  
"Who are you?!" Stan demanded, grabbing the baseball bat leaning against the wall and brandishing it, eyes darting around for an escape. "What do you want from me? I told Rico I'd pay him!"

  
Ford stilled at the words, ears ringing in the thick silence as one hand held his aching face, and the other turned outward nonthreateningly. "Stanley, it's just me, it's your brother, Stanford," he started careful, forcing his voice to be even, like talking a madman down from jumping off a cliff. "Rico can't get to you anymore, Stan, it's been years. I'm not going to hurt you."

  
Confusion danced in his eyes as the bat dropped just a hair. "How do I know that? How can I trust you?"

  
_Trust no one, trust no one, trust no one_...his own words mocked him now as he reached slowly into his coat and pulled out a fresh photo that he kept nestled next to the old one and brandished it for Stan to see. If was a Polaroid that Mabel had shot of them sitting on the porch drinking Pitt cola as the sun set in comfortable silence, Stan staring at the kids, Ford reading from a novel Dipper had given him sheepishly.

  
"Does this look like the image of someone that wants to hurt you?" he asked as Stan took the picture, dropping the bat carefully back to its rightful place. He sat back, shoulders slumped inward, brows furrowed as he tried to remember. Ford rose slowly, ignoring the dull ache blossoming in his jaw and sat next to his brother, a tentative hand placed on his shoulder, rough with the burn mark he'd been part of.

  
"I...I don't know," Stan said honestly, looking hurt that he couldn't recall.

  
"That's okay. We can go over it a thousand times until you remember," Ford offered, giving his brother a reassuring squeeze as he launched into the pertinent facts of them and watched a slow dawning appear in Stan's eyes the more Ford lamented. He even tried to embellish the stories, but soon Stan was shaking his head and correcting him as he remembered.

  
"Ohhh no, Sixer, you liar, you did not have a hot prom date that year, if I distinctly remember, you got doused in punch!" Stan snorted, slugging Ford playfully in the shoulder.

  
"I suppose you're right," Ford said, eyeing Stan as he fought back a yawn. "It's been a rough few hours, get to sleep, I'll be up with the kids to make them their birthday breakfast." As he went to get up, he found Stan's hand on his wrist, holding him back.

  
"Why are you so patient with me?" Stan finally asked, a deceiving warble to his voice.

  
"What kind of brother would I be if I wasn't?" he answered, throwing Stan's own logic back at him. Stan huffed at the answer, but still didn't let his hand drop. "Something else bothering you?"

  
"You had another nightmare," Stan answered matter-of-factly. "And I didn't even remember you when you came to make sure I was alive."

  
"It's not your fault, Stanley," Ford assured as he heard the guilt lace through his brother's words. "You can't blame yourself."

  
His eyes dropped as he finally let go, fingers twining with themselves nervously. "I know, but it hurts you when I don't remember. Even when I have no idea who you are, I can see it on your face, in your eyes. And I don't like that I hurt you, Ford. Because you would never hurt me, and here I am, fucking it up and hurting you."

  
Damn, he thought to himself he figured he was better at keeping his emotions in check, but then again, Stanley could always read him like a warped book. He dropped back to the bed and took Stan's hand gingerly, placing it on the thick wool of his sweater, over his heart. "Feel that, Stanley? As long as that's thumping, I'm going to be here for you, whether you remember me or not. Because I promise you this, it'd hurt more if you weren't here at all, rather than small episodes of forgetfulness. Got that, Knucklehead?"

  
Stan feigned disgust as he used the same hand to push Ford away and roll his eyes. Embarrassed by the display, he clamored under the sheets and turned his back to Ford. "Yeah, yeah, enough with the mushy stuff, I'm tired and have a lot to do for the party tomorrow, y'know?"

  
Ford took the dismissal with a smile as he turned on his heel and headed to the door. As he hit the lightswitch off he turned one last time and breathed a, "Goodnight, Stanley."

\---

Two weeks had passed, and it seemed like just yesterday they had bid farewell to the younger set of twins as they headed back to California for school. Maybe because his mushy brother had set up online chats almost every other day and gushed on and on about the kids in their absence. It was endearing, even as he skulked around the Mystery Shack, clasping to the scrapbook Mabel had left him with.

  
But those days were coming to a close, as the brothers hopped on a plane back to New Jersey for their sailing adventures. Stan had been surprised to find out that Ford had kept up their childhood dream, by purchasing a clunker of a fishing boat back with his college money that had been sitting in a warf waiting for the day it got to set sail. Sure, it needed some updates and furnishing, but it had the bare bones of a great vessel. During the nights they camped at a motel near the shore, and during the day they worked. Stan found purpose wandering the familiar town that seemed plucked straight from their childhood, stocking up on dried and canned goods for the day they set out on voyage, venturing in and out of little antique stores on the strip for heavy duty cast iron pots and kettles, spending hours hunting for the proper fisherman's gear they would need.  
Likewise, Ford worked on the innards of the ship, making modifications to the navigation system, updating to a high frequency, long-distance satellite that allowed very long-range wifi connections, thanks to Fiddleford. The sonar system was also a piece of work that he fiddled with into long hours of the night, to sense both the regular and the magical creatures they may run into on the Arctic. He also fitted the vessel with a low-voltage electrical ward to deter larger creatures, and those of magical origin that may not appreciate the ship in their domain, that could be flicked on and off with ease and didn't seem to phase smaller, harmless creatures.

  
It was one AM when he ratcheted in the last bolt of the night and gave an exhausted sigh as wiped grease on the thighs of his pants. He was surprised it was as late as it was; usually it was around nine-thirty that Stanley would stalk the few blocks to their hanger, mumbling at how terrible Ford's eyes were going to get working in the dim light before they even launched. If the scientist still hadn't budged by eleven, Stanley was there, doing work on the inside, knowing full-well that Ford would give up if he was around and breathing down his neck.

  
Ford climbed up onto the deck. He hadn't heard Stan banging around like he usually did in the cabin. Shrugging he opened the door and walked the few steps down inside, looking around. No, his brother wasn't here, and his concern was beginning to mount. What if Stanley had an amnesic event and had forgotten where he was, who he was? The hair on the back of his neck bristled at the idea, and he bolted off the ship, stopping long enough to lock both the cabin door, and the hanger, before taking off down the street. The old antique lamps glowed orange in the brisk night air, sea fog hanging loosely to the ground, tendrils lapping at his ankles as he quickened his stride to a loping jog.

  
The neon sign blazed ominously in the fog as Ford rounded a corner and found the door to the room they were sharing. All he could hope was that his brother was still there. He had at first resisted the idea of Stan running errands on his own, and staying behind at the motel by himself while Ford worked, but he knew his brother needed a sense of normalcy, a sense of responsibility in their current plans. He didn't need a parent, he needed an understanding brother, as much as it grated on Ford's nerves sometimes.  
He popped the card into the door lock and turned the knob, breathing a sigh of relief at seeing Stanley sitting up in the bed he'd claimed as his own, room glowing blue with the television light. But as the door clicked shut, Ford tensed; something didn't feel right. Maybe it was the blue illumination that prickled his senses, so like Bill's magic, maybe it was the stoic look on his brother's face.

  
"You're up late, to have not come to fetch me at the warf," Ford said carefully as he tucked the keycard into the inner pocket of his coat and slipped it off to hang over a chair at the small breakfast nook. Still, Stan hadn't budged. "Is everything okay?"

  
"I don't know," Stan growled, looking at him accusingly. "You tell me, Stanford. Should it be? Should ' _everything be okay_ ' after you tried to erase me?"

  
Ford took a step back against the hate laced in those quiet words, eyes widening just a tad. "You knew, you knew it was the only way to defeat Bill! He was going to hurt the kids!"

  
"Was it?" Stan retorted, sliding off the bed and turning to face him. "How would I knew if it was the only way? I'm not smart like you, Stanford. Maybe you just said that to get rid of me. Maybe you just said that, hoping I'd be gone forever, hoping you'd never have to worry about someone as _suffocating_ as me in your life, holding you back."

  
Ford shook his head as dread filled him, words tangling on his tongue at the bitter disgust that Stan stared at him with. "Wh-what, where would you get that idea, Stanley?"

  
"You staring down the barrel of the memory gun," Stan snarled, taking a step toward him, finger jamming into his chest like a cattle prod. "I bet you don't even regret the shit you put me through with this."

  
Ford jumped back as if he were hit physically, eyes burning. "You have no idea how _much_ I regret it," he said brokenly, hands palm outward, pleading. "I lost my brother that day. My sweet, caring, _stupid_ brother, whom sacrificed himself for everyone else. _You_ , Stanley, I lost you."

  
"Shuttup, will ya?" Stan snarled, shoving Ford backwards. He stumbled over the edge of his coat, losing his balance, striking his head against the wall with a dizzying crack that left his vision blurred. "I lost my life, thanks to you. I lost everything, thanks to you! And I'm done with it, I'm done with _you_!" he yelled, slamming the door open and shut, finality ringing in the air.

  
Ford dropped his head in his hands, heart hammering in his throat, feeling like a pickaxe had been driven straight through his chest. And he sobbed.  
His worst nightmare had come true.


	2. And the Rain came crashing Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Triggers for this chapter include: self-harm, depression, anxiety, alcoholic tendencies, and Stangst. But brotherly cuddles!

A storm was brewing.

The early morning air was heavy with it.  Electricity seemed to dance along the quaint seaside town, tickling the nose, raising tiny hairs over the body.  The low-hanging fog that drifted in off the surf cackled with it, singing in tune to the elements.  Far-out at sea, roiling clouds built high into the nighttime sky, blotting out the constellations and moon glow, as if eating them alive.  The brisk breeze that cut to the bone was chilled, wet, and salty on the back of the tongue, a numbing promise of the rain to come that built at the horizon menacingly, a citadel in the sky.

But the storm on the horizon wasn't the only one building. 

Stan stomped down the street, hands curling and unfurling, teeth borne to the night, daring anyone to doubt what he had just done.  He saw shadows around the corners, just out of reach; saw figures with sharp teeth and glowing eyes just beyond the thick fog; heard maniacal laughter tittering at him, jeering.  But when he looked again, nothing was there - nothing, ever, was there.  After midnight, the only folks prowling were the dredges of the boiling pot, the homeless, the prostitutes, the rampant drunks that staggered the night to forget.

Which didn't entirely sound like a bad idea to him.  His feet found the way to the glowing yellow sign of the ratty dive bar on the seaside stretch that hadn't changed since his childhood except a new coat of salted paint, and carried him to a sticky stool with cracking vinyl.  He burned through a shot of tequila or two, or three, or maybe more, he wasn't sure as he shook a cigarette from a crumbled pack deep in his pockets and lit up, surveying the quiet little establishment.

His eyes landed on the battered pool table in the corner, green carpeting tattered at the edges and stained from various fluids, wood working chipped and banged up from years of use.  It was familiar, Stan realized as he saw himself with a shit-eating grin taking bets and pocketing money on his brother's game, a game that Ford had meticulously calculated every shot and in no way ever lost, no matter if it were the local teens or the hot-shot adults he played against.  It was an easy wad of cash for the two teenaged twins to make as the opponent racked the balls and Ford dusted his cue, lowered it to the table, and made the shot with a _crack_!

The same _crack_ of his brother's skull slamming back into the wall of their motel room.  Shaking his head, Stan glowered into the tumbler of liquid in front of him, grasping it so hard he was afraid the cheap glass would shatter under his steady hands.  Ford deserved it, he thought darkly, Ford deserved all the pain in the world for what he had done.

But what, exactly, had he done?  _He tried to erase you!_ his mind answered back as the alcohol blurred the memories.  He had thought it was mutual, had thought he was confident in his decision to end Bill's reign over the town, but somewhere in his mind a voice was cursing that idea as false, telling him he was a fool.

There they were, in the glowing blue cage of despair, waiting anxiously for the return of the younger twins. Discussing how to defeat the dream demon, if there even were a way.  He watched the suggestion take place from Ford, that they always did play the part of each other well, that the only way to insure the twins' safety was to erase Bill from Stan's mind. The accusation that the young ones would die if Stan didn't agree.  The resignation on Ford's face as he held the memory gun steady and typed in his brother's name, the excited, elated gleam to his eyes as he pulled the trigger, the smile that broke on his shaven face at the blue light slammed into Stan and began burning away his memories.

Ford was glad to have gotten rid of him at last, and according to Mabel's recounts of the tale, hadn't thought to try to retrieve his memories in any way after the incident.  He had wanted Stan gone at the end of summer, and would have gotten his wish, if it weren't for Mabel's scrapbook that he occasionally caught Ford flipping through bitterly.  He knew indirectly through Dipper that Ford thought he was suffocating.  Knew that Ford hated him; and how couldn't he, after Stan had been the reason he was sucked up through the portal and put through God-knows-what for so many years?  He'd seen quick glimpses of the angry scars and pocket marks that laced up Ford's tanned arms, could only assume what else was hidden under his thick, cozy sweaters.  Each scar on his brother's skin was like a nail that cut through his heart, hammered in deep.

Ford hated him; and how couldn't he, after Stan had ruined his dreams to attend the nation's leading nerd school and put his genius to the test doing what he loved?  But he hadn't gone to that school, and Ford was still a successful researcher with hundreds of published articles, a textbook he had written, and many paradoxical theories that were still being analyzed and questioned in today's science classes.  Despite losing his dream, Ford had still found a way to meander through and conquer, like he always did. 

Even the portal, Ford seemed to conquer.  He may have returned brazen, with a hard, cynical edge and a paranoia that ran deeper than survivals instinct, but Ford was whole, and here, and alive.  Yet, Ford didn't seem grateful to be returned to their dimension, didn't seem to understand the Hell Stan put himself through trying to get his brother back.  He wasn't smart, wasn't even that bright, but he had scoured through the texts littering Ford's cabin in the wood to learn the complicities of his brother's handiwork, taught himself advanced mathematics and physics in order to get the portal restarted and his brother home, safe.  And how had he thanked Stan?  A knuckle sandwich and locking himself away, safely tucked in his lab to be forgotten and ignored.

"Fuck him," Stan mumbled bitterly as he tossed back another shot, the burn dull against the numbness that coursed through him.  What was worse, _now_ Ford was "trying" to be a better brother, inviting him to go on his Arctic adventure.  Or maybe, he just couldn't handle the ship and choppy waters alone, maybe he just needed an extra set on hands on deck, as if two extra fingers weren't enough help.  Maybe he needed a sacrifice for whatever strange monsters the two were sure to find; maybe, Ford was guilty and felt like he just needed to babysit Stan since his memory still wasn't on par to where it had been before Weirdmageddon. 

"Well, I'll take care of _that_ ," Stan growled as he slammed a twenty down on the gouged bar, catching the bartenders eye and giving a solitary nod of acknowledgement that he was leaving as he stumbled out the door.

"Shit, it's cold," he said, pulling his coat tighter around him as the wind whipped, whispering sweet nothings by his ear.

_He hates you.  He wanted you gone.  You're disposable.  You're useless.  You're a good-for-nothing crook that_ stole _thirty precious years from him.  You would have been better forgotten._ Erased _._

Brows furrowing, he shook his head at the voices taunting him, fist curling deep in his jacket pockets, face steeled against the harsh realization that smacked him, like the bitter seamist that kissed his jaw.  "Yeah, yeah, yeah."

_And all you wanted was your brother back.  Your genius of a brother, that always started at loud noises, that hated thunder, that terrored  against Mom's disappointed face.  That could solve a rubics cube in seconds, that painted a mural for the elementary school library after being remodeled, that taught you how to appropriately win at gambling with calculations and probability.  The brother that talked you down from the pier after having your teenage heart shattered, the brother that tearfully bartered with you not to jump into the crashing surf.  The brother that had been the first to recognize you may need outside help.  But your brother, Ford, nah...he didn't want you._

Stan found that his feet had carried him to the hanger where the ship was, and his fingers typed in the familiar code almost like magic.  He slipped through the door, an overhead light popping on at his presence, flooding the boat with faded light that made it appear washed out and forgotten.

Just like him.

He had to admit, the ship was top-notch, despite its rough beginnings; Ford had done a wonderful job with the restorations and updates, to the point a newcomer may have thought the boat was brand new, if not for the slightly scifi attachments that glittered here or there.  The bright decal that Ford had meticulously painted onto the port and starboard sides beckoned to him, mockingly; _Stan'O'War II._

His body seemed to know what he was going to do before the actions registered in his foggy head as his strong hands wrapped around the handle of a well-oiled axe and swung, slicing through the air, slamming into their shared name, wood splinting under the weapon.  He pulled it back, anger fueling his shaking muscles as he whacked, again and again and again, into the side of the boat, feeling nothingness as his hands split and cracked from the immense effort, swelling with tiny fluid-filled blisters.

"I hate you!" _Crack_.  "I wish I neva would'a brought you back!"  _Whomp_.  "I hope this hurts as much as you hurt me!"  _Whack_.  " ** _I hate you_**!"

Breathing hard, every muscle in his body screaming in tension, he dropped to his knees, letting the axe fall to the ground unyielding as he stared at the gaping hole in the helm and felt nothing but relief.

Until red and blue lights strobed into the open door and a voice yelled.  "Hands on your head!  You're under arrest!"

 

...

 

The electric buzzing of the television was the only sound in the quiet motel room as Ford held his head in his hands and tried to calm the panicked, short breaths his lungs were fighting for, aching for.  His head throbbed and his vision still was deceptively blurred at the edges, but that could have been in part to his heart in his throat, choking him. 

_When panic takes hold, and all goes south, breathe in through your nose, and out through your mouth_ , his mind chided him, forcing his breathing to slow to an acceptable rate as he repeated the rhyme over the deafening pounding of his heart in his ears.  It was the one thing he'd taken out of the therapy sessions he went to, against anyone's knowledge, when Stanley had tried to end his life the first time.

It took several minutes for his mind to take control of his body and force his breathing into a normal rate and rhythm, force the fear that had crawled up his throat back down, force his hammering heart to slow just enough to _think._

Ford was at a loss as to what had come over Stanley.  It was a sudden, devastating change over how they had been the last few weeks, eagerly working on the ship, shopping for appropriate tools and instruments to accompany them on their maiden voyage, getting to know each other and the town after all these years.  So what had caused it?

Stan knew that Ford was immensely regretful of the decision to erase his memories with Bill.  He _had_ to know.  When Stan had made the suggestion, with his cocky grin hiding the utter fright of the idea, Ford had adamantly protested.  Stan had a life in this world - a business, friends, family that adored and depended on the crotchey old geezer - and Ford simply didn't, despite the fact it was all done under his own name.  Stan had made something successful out of himself, and for once in his life seemed _happy_ , and there was no way that Ford would willingly take that away from him.  Until Stan had begged to do it for the kids.  And even when they had gone through with the crazy plan, Ford couldn't look while he aimed the shaking gun at his brother, couldn't watch the slack-jawed expression of a man losing _everything_ he had ever worked for. 

It haunted him even now, even though - through some miracle of  Mabel - Stan had retrieved a great deal of his memories back.  Because he knew it was his fault, everything had been his fault.  If he had simply just listened to the engraved warnings of the native town folk, if he hadn't been duped by what he thought was his greatest ally, if he'd heeded the fear in Fiddleford's eyes, then none of it would have happened.  He could never blame Stan for his time spent behind the portal; he had been the master genius behind it, and due to his own shortcomings he'd found himself trapped.    He'd wished a thousand times that he had given Stan what he wanted, that fated day in the basement, and simply sailed away from the horrors and mystery that Gravity Falls plagued his fragile existence with.

But he hadn't, and he was trying to make up for his selfishness of the past, make up for the missing time between them.  It seemed Stanley had other ideas, however, and why?  Ford just couldn't nail down _why_ Stan had lashed out all of a sudden, changing his mind about everything.

Heaving a sigh, Ford pushed himself into a stand, ignoring the swimming feeling as his head oriented to the sudden shift in equilibrium.  He was sure if it weren't for the plate in his skull he'd have a pretty wicked concussion with the amount of force his head had bounced into the wall with; and, groaning, he saw a crimson stain on the flowery wallpaper where his noggin had hit.

"Damnit," he grumbled to himself as he checked the damage in the bathroom mirror, and saw  the dried blood in his hair, and a small gash leaking congealed blood at his scalp.  He went about the task of irrigating and cleaning the wound thoughtlessly, pulled a small tube of adhesive from a well-organized aid kit, and began the mindless task of looping strands of hair together and dotting the twist with glue, closing off the small laceration with apposition. 

As his hands worked at their task, his mind wandered to Stanley and the pure enraptured hatred his brother had thrown at him before.  There was only one time in their history before he'd received the same kind of unadulterated rage from his brother, the fight before everything had transpired thirty years ago.  It gave him pause to think that both fights had ties to Bill, sent a shudder of dread through him at just what that could imply.

He hummed dismissively as he eyed his handiwork, before wetting a handtowel and trudging into the bedroom to clean the wall, suspicious of the idea of leaving his blood DNA laying around.  That was just silly, Bill was _gone_ , they had assured that....right?

As he finished his task, his eyes caught on the shimmering, glitter book tucked into Stan's bag at the foot of his bed.  Without a thought Ford grabbed it up and sat at the edge of the bed, a sad smile cracking on his lips as his large, six-fingered hand passed over the glitter-glue and plastic jewels covering the scrapbook his great-niece had sent with Stan "just in case your head gets fuzzy and things are hard to remember!". 

He flipped through the pages, a bitter smile taking hold as he scanned through the memories that his brother had shared with the kids over the summer, watched as Stan loosened up through the snapshots.  Pictures of the kids in hand-stitched hats fishing, pictures of the twins smiling brightly at the camera in costume with trick'or'treat bags tucked under their arms, a distorted picture of a pterodactyl chasing a Stan that carried the twins on his shoulders, a pig strapped to his belly.  It made him glad that Stan had experienced all those great things, but pulled on his heart that he hadn't had the time with the kids and his family like his brother did.  There were only a few candid snaps that included him into the dynamic; Mabel, having painted his hand like a turkey, Stan, swinging them up into the trees with the grappling hook he borrowed from their great-niece, lounging around the porch while water balloons were hurtled at them from the children.  But there were plenty of empty pages that Mabel had left "for all your ship adventures!"

If they ever got to have them, he thought sourly, a pang filling his chest as he glanced to the clock: 0240.

As he was closing the book, a loose piece of paper floated out and caught his eye.  Curious, Ford unfolded it, heart stopping as he read his name at the top in familiar blocky letters, mind whirling to another time in the distant past he'd found a note addressed solely to him, a time he prayed he wasn't too late, a time that had terrified him.

_Stanford,_

_Mabel suggested rather enthusiastically that I write you whenever I have "feelings" about you, that wake me up with night terrors or whatever and piss me off or confuse me, or when my memory isn't playing right and I don't know what to believe.  Because I really suck at talking, ya know.  And it's been happening a lot lately, bro.  I don't know about you anymore.  I wanted to believe you really wanted to go on this fishing trip, but I just don't know.  You're a freaking smartypants genius, why would you want to spend time with a loser like me?  _

_I wanted my brother back...and now that I have him, it scares me.  You scare me.  Sometimes I see all humanity leave you for a few seconds and there's murder in your eyes.  Sometimes I wonder if you're going to go off in your sleep and kill me.  Sometimes I get this sinking feeling that you're gonna leave again, and that kills me.  That you'll get bored having a forgetful lug like me around.  That all I'll do is hold you back._

"Oh, Stanley," Ford mumbled, feeling like he was kicked in the stomach as he read, flipping the page over and following along to the string of jumbled thoughts.

_I'm useless, Ford.  The only useful thing I ever did for anyone was let myself be erased, let myself be forgotten.  I'm better off that way.  A nobody.  Nobody to disappoint, nobody to need, nobody to bother.  Especially for you.  You have so much potential, so much to offer our crappy world with your brains, you shouldn't be wasting it on scum like me.  But you are, and that kills me, because why the Hell do I deserve that?  You're better than that, you're better than me._

"Damnit, Stanley," he said between grit teeth, angry tears springing to his eyes as he read what his brother had been bottling up and keeping inside.  "If I didn't want to be here, I wouldn't be, you idiot," he hissed to no one.

_I guess this is getting a little weird, huh?  But that's okay, this is just for me, for my peace of mind, and you'll never see it, I know how notes from me make you panic, you moron, like I'd really kill  myself.  But sometimes, how much I wish I could just cry and tell you how much I missed you, but words don't seem to do the feelings justice, ya know.  I never stopped caring, ya know, genius._

"Nor did I," Ford replied to the half-empty page, as if Stan had given up on fumbling with coherent thoughts.  He rubbed his eyes and let out a breath he didn't know he was holding, unsure of what to think, when the phone rang.

 

...

 

The wind was biting and picking up, attempting to gnaw at any exposed skin as Ford paced down the cracked street, sea fog lapping at his trail like a puppy.  He pulled his coat close around his neck and threw his hood up, the brisk chill stinging his most recent wound.  His hands dug deep into the trenchcoat's pockets, furling and unfuring.  But not in anger, he didn't think; Hell, he wasn't sure _what_ he felt in response to the phone call he'd received, but Ford knew he couldn't be angry.

He stepped gingerly through the police station's door, an alarm buzzing quietly at his presence.  Much the same way Stan had been caught at the hanger; despite the ruckus he had apparently been making, he'd forgotten to reset the code and tripped the silent alarm that automatically dispatched the authorities.  Throwing his hood off and smoothing his coat back into place from the beating wind, Ford sighed.  He'd received little information over the telephone, other than his brother was caught smashing the boat to pieces in a drunken rage.  He fought a headache thinking about what kind of damage his brother could have caused, but forced himself to set a neutral expression, knowing that he'd have to put aside any irritation at that fact.  His brother needed him, not to judge, or argue, or scold, but to be there to understand _why_.

Heavy boots on concrete brought Ford's eyes upward, and he stilled seeing the familiar, chubby face of Crampelter, hair in the typical high-and-tight style of the uniform, but nothing else seemed to fit the classic look of an officer.  His utility belt seemed to be a resting table for his large abdomen, stretched shirt pulled tight over a bullet-proof vest, buttons threatening to undo at any moment. 

"Well if it isn't old Stanford Pines, what've you been up to?" the officer said, leaning against the counter behind the glass, a fake smile plastered to his weathered face.

"This and that," he replied nonchalantly, pulling a pen from his pocket.  "What kind of paperwork do I need to fill out for Stanley's release?"

"Everyone is always bragging about you, y'know, 'the one that got away and did something amaaazing with himself'," Crampelter said, rolling his eyes.  "A real local celebrity.  I'm still not sure how relevant your research is."

"As I'm sure you wouldn't, it is quite detailed and scholarly," he replied without a thought, staring the shorter man down.  "Now, what do I need to do to bring Stanley home?"

Crampelter ignored the question.  "Not like that trouble maker brother of yours.  Running around, smashing things in a drunken stupor.  Say, what did your loser brother ever accomplish?"

"More than you,"  Ford hissed dangerously, the threat thick in his steady voice.  "Everything, actually.  He certainly is my hero.  And I will tell you this only once, if you _ever_ so much as _consider_ insulting Stanley in front of me, I'll make you disappear to never be so much as mentioned again.  Science can do that, you know."

Crampelter balked for a moment as he caught the deadly look accompanying the cheerful words, before his face turned sour and he slammed a finger into the glass between them.  "Are you threatening a cop?"

Ford raised a brow, and leaned against his elbows on the counter, eyes taking the shorter man up and down.  "Oh, is that what you are?  Could have fooled me.  And no, I'm threatening a childhood bully that continues to have a chip on his shoulder about the Pines twins."  Ford watched the man's face turn scarlet in anger, and felt satisfied.  "Now, I won't ask again.  What do I need to sign for Stanley?"

The officer leaned back, arms barely crossing across his chest as a smug look twitched his lips upward.  "Stanley is booked on charges of destruction of private property and public intoxication, so he'll actually need to be bailed out, and unfortunately the bail office doesn't open until seven."

Ford laughed in his face, much to Crampelter's dismay.  "Excuse me?  That 'private property' is mine," he said, slamming down the documentation of ownership, as well as the deed for the hanger the boat was housed in.  "And I'm not pressing charges.  As far as public intoxication?  How is it 'public' if Stanley was on my private property?"

"Well, well--"

"Shut up and give me the papers to sign.  You have nothing to hold him, and we'll be leaving one way or another."

Before Crampelter could argue anymore, a younger female officer pushed him out of the way and gave him one look that promised this wasn't going to be his night, and Ford smiled brightly at her apologies as she introduced herself as Captain Lily Downe and handed over a clipboard with highlighted spaces for signatures and initials.

"You know, I feel pretty bad about the damage that boat of yours took, she sure is a beauty," the woman said, shooing Crampelter back to grunt work.

Ford's eye twitched at the thought, chest heavy, as he scribbled through the first page of documents.  "I have yet to see it."

She gave a nod with a halfhearted smile as she watched him.  "I kind of figured with how quickly you came.  But I'd do the same thing for my brother.  And I think everyone in town knows the stories of the elusive Pines boys."

He cracked a smile at that as he handed the clipboard back and tucked his pen back into his pocket, surprised how their reputation had preceded them through the years.  And yet...her dirty blonde hair that curled at the end, upturned  button nose, wide green eyes.  Ah, yes.  "You're Thistle and Carla's daughter, aren't you?"

"On the money," she said with a smile, flipping through the papers to make sure it was filled out correctly, adding her signature when acceptable.  Finished, she buzzed open the door, and Ford pushed it open, looking at her expectedly.  "Come on, he's back here."

He followed Captain Downe to the holding cells in the back, signing in at a desk with a young officer that nodded for them to continue forward.  Ford's heart ached seeing Stan sitting in the concrete cell, bars obscuring his face, hands clasped between his knees, head down.  He could only imagine the memories a place like this brought up in his brother's mind.  He'd only briefly heard the tales of his many arrests, but knew it couldn't be doing him any good in there.  Not with a passed-out hooker two doors away, covered in her own puke, or the clearly homeless man in the cell over, sleeping soundly as if it weren't his first rodeo.

He walked toward the iron bars, boots heavy on the concrete, hand reaching out as the officer buzzed the door unlocked, and he swung it open shakingly.  "Stanley, let's go."

Stan tensed at his voice, shoulders drawing inward, hands ringing together tightly.  "Why should I?" was the whispered reply that seemed to echo in small area.

_Because it kills me to see you like this_ , he thought to himself.  Because it was making him itch being there, sweat dripping between his shoulders as he breathed a little too shallowly thinking about being stuck behind these bars.  "Because it's time to go.  Stanley, _please_ ," he breathed. 

Stan glanced at him at that, expression unreadable, before turning his eyes back to the ground and shaking his head.  "No."

Anxiety boiled under Ford's skin as his hand slipped on the iron bars and he felt helpless and humiliated as the young officer and Captain Downe watched them carefully.  Helpless, because Stan simply wasn't budging; humiliated, because he knew what he had to do to prove to Stan he wasn't upset, and it made him want to run than do it.  Images flashed in his head of blue bars that seemed to pulsate inward at each passing breath, enclosing tighter, of otherwordly metal chains and shackles circling his extremities and neck.  Pressing his eyes close tightly he took a breath and stepped into the cell, knowing full well that the heavy door would bang closed and lock them both in together.

Stan's eyes darted upward at the _bang_ , widened when he saw his brother behind the bars with him and the quiet panic he was trying to hide.  "Ford?"

Ford stiffly walked to his brother and looked down at those wide eyes, forcing himself not to gulp air like he wanted, forcing his hands to still at his sides rather than claw up and down his wrist where recent scars hummed in memory.  Stan turned away, fingers clamped tightly together - so tight, in fact, Ford noticed small circles of broken skin glaring angrily at him.  Fighting the urge to run, Ford knelt down, trench coat fluttering behind him like silk rather than the thick material it was made of.  He grabbed his brother's hands and pried them easily apart.

"Stanley, I'm not mad at you.  I'm confused, for sure.  And afraid that I did something wrong to set you off.  If I did, I'm sorry.  I don't want to fight.  We can figure this all out in the morning.  If you still want to be angry, I'll let you.  If you still want to hate me, that's okay too.  But just don't be _done_ with me, 'Lee..."

Stan stilled at the childhood nickname he hadn't heard in years, that Ford often reserved for the moments he needed to feel special, the worst moments in his life that he had to be pulled back from the edge of breaking down, the nickname no one except his brother had ever called him.  Without a thought, he threw his arms around Ford's neck and held tight, holding on for dear life as if he were going to be swept away.  And when Ford's six-fingered hands encircled his shoulders, all the bad images faded, all the bad voices silenced, and he knew, at least now, at least here, he'd be okay.

 

...

 

The wind warred against them on the silent walk home, the smell of promised rain suffocating in the salty sea air as they hurried.  Stan let himself be lead the short distance by his brother, grateful for the warmth that Ford's hand provided around his own.  As long as he concentrated on that contact, on that rough warmth clasping his hand, he knew he was grounded and everything would be okay.

The rain started slow as they rounded the block and hustled the remaining steps to the hotel, and began pounding unrelentlessly as they crossed the threshold, slamming the door in the face of the storm.  Stan shuddered as he lost that precious contact with his twin as Ford shook his coat off and rustled the raindrops from his thick hair, stilled as he saw the patch work done to the small gash on the back of his head.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered, broken, hands shaking as the terrible image played before his eyes, pushing his brother, pushing Ford with such bitter hatred he had cracked the poor man's head open. 

Those six-fingers landed on his shoulders, shaking him out of it, literally.  "Don't do this to yourself, Stanley.  It's fine, it's just a superficial cut, scalp wounds just bleed a bit more than average.  It's nothing to worry over."

Stan wasn't convinced, but he nodded anyway, taking a deep breath and stilling the bubbling emotions within.  Satisfied, Ford tugged at his hoodie, and Stan let him take it off and hang over a breakfast chair. 

"Come on, let's get you showered, and maybe it'll help sober you up a bit," Ford said, dragging him toward the bathroom.  Indignantly, Stan pulled his wrist away and glared.

"I'm not a kid, Ford, I can manage a shower on my own."

He didn't give time for his twin to argue as he stomped into the bathroom and shut the door, throwing a look at the lock he knew Ford had disabled the first night they made this room their home with a sad smile as he cranked the faucets on and listened to the rattling pipes spew water.  He hated that he made his brother worry so much over his well being by not even doing anything, but he couldn't deny the looks he'd caught from Ford quietly watching, waiting, as if Stan was going to break at any moment.

And maybe he was, he thought to himself as he stripped off his clothes  and stepped under the boiling stream of water that turned his skin pink from the heat.  Maybe he was closer to the edge of bittersweet destruction than he had originally thought.

Despite the numbness that flowed through him from the alcohol, it hurt that he had injured his brother, because he knew that small flesh wound was nothing like the emotional wound he'd caused.  Had seen it in Ford's shocked eyes when he'd accused him of wanting to erase Stan, had heard it in his strained, pleading voice before he had stomped out of their room.  It was an image he couldn't get out of his head, Ford sprawled on the floor, hands stretched out, begging. 

"Damnit, Stan, you fucking fool," he growled to himself as he lowered himself in the tub and sat under the stream of water that mixed with tears down his face, steam encircling him.  "Why do you have to be so stupid?"

His mind warred.  He was convinced that Ford hated him, saw the image clear of his genuine pleasantry at pulling the trigger of the memory gun, but it blurred and faded, showing an equally-stricken Ford trembling as he held the gun and averted his eyes as he pulled the trigger.  He thought Ford had without a doubt wanted him gone forever, but the idea melded and changed at the torn voice of his brother calling him 'Lee.  Had thought for sure that Ford blamed him for everything, only to be assured that he wasn't mad at anything.

Stan didn't know what to believe, didn't know who to trust, didn't know if his the whispered voices in his brain were right about Ford, or if what appeared to be happening in reality was.  Then again, was this reality at all?  Was he living now, or was his brain trying to tell him _that_ was real life?  He didn't know, didn't know how to find out, when the gleam of his razor caught his eye.

The idea popped into his head, and his body responded before he had time to register the blade slicing cleanly through the soft tissue on the inside of his arm.  Blood ran stark against the pristine whiteness of the bathroom, dripping in rivulets to be washed away forever down the drain, and Stan let out a strangled sob.  If he bled, then _this_ was real, _this_ was right, and Ford didn't hate him afterall.

 

...

 

Ford paced the small room, eyes darting to the bathroom every few seconds, hands clasped behind his back to keep from invading his brother's privacy.   He hadn't known Stan was in quiet such a fragile place until tonight, until he had read the note, until he clung to him in desperation on the jail cell floor, until he nearly whimpered when Ford had let his hand go inside the room.  He hated the idea of leaving Stan alone, but knew he had to give him his space to think, to come to terms with whatever the Hell was happening, and trust him. 

Until he heard the small muffled sob that sent ice through his veins and had him throwing the bathroom door open.

It took a moment to register the scene, his brother sitting under the faucet, cradling a bleeding arm with something akin to joy on his face, a bloodied razor having clattered to the tile floor.  It felt _wrong_ and sent a wave of bile washing up his throat from his stomach as the grinning wound stared at him, pouring out blood in sick rivers. 

"Jesus Christ, Stanley, what did you _do_?" he hissed, voice foreign to his own ears as he slammed the water off and knelt by the tub, choking down the sick feeling that made his hands tremble as he inspected the relatively clean laceration and wrapped a towel to the wrist to staunch the flow. He knew it probably just looked worse than it was because of the thinned quality of Stanley's blood due to the alcohol, but that was a small comfort to the reality of the situation.

"I had to make sure this was real," Stan said in a gravelly tone, caramel eyes staring intently at the bloodied towel that hid the wound. 

"You didn't have to try to kill yourself to do that," Ford spat, not able to hide the anger that swelled, the anger at himself for leaving Stan to his own devices.  Shit, what if Stan had nicked the artery, or cut deeper, or...

"I know I'm fucked up right now, but don't be mad, Sixer," Stan said, pulling Ford from the thoughts that swirled. 

"I'm not _mad_ ," he said as he pulled his first-aid kit from under the counter and popped it open.  " _I'm scared_ , 'Lee.  What if I wasn't here?  What if you'd done more damage than you did?  I don't know what's going through your head, and that scares me."

There, he'd admitted it.  His greatest life's mystery may as well have been his brother, and, it appeared, he was doing a terrible job at solving it.  He filled a syringe with colourless liquid and set it to the side as he took a breath, steeling himself, and unwrapped Stan's arm.  He went about the mindless task of cleaning out the wound, dropping a few drops of liquid into the deeper portions to clot the vessels, not meeting his brother's eyes as Stan flinched away every time he dug peroxide covered gauze through the laceration.

"I didn't know you went to med school," Stan commented, hissing his breath through his teeth as Ford went about injecting lidocaine around the site, wincing at each little needle bite.

Ford shrugged as he tugged on gloves and went to work placing the sutures.  "I never finished my fellowship.  Medicine can be dismal, and I got bored.  You see a hundred of the same cases in a week, thousands before anything remotely interesting or rare walks through your door.  People's mysteries just weren't it for me."

But the skills remained in use during his time in the portal when survival was almost unheard of.  He pulled the last suture tight and slathered the 3-inch laceration with antibiotic ointment before placing an absorbent pad and gauze wrap over it.  Without a word he cleaned up his supplies, placed the kit away, popped the needles he'd used into a water bottle to properly dispose of later, and offered Stan a hand.

"Might've been for the better, your bedside manner sure is lacking," Stan joked as he let his brother pull him up and hand him a towel.  "You never were real happy around people."

Ford fought the urge to yell at him; here he was with a sizeable self-inflicted wound on his wrist, and he had the gall to joke?  But that was Stan, afterall; a true conman in spirit, trying to trick him into feeling like this little incident could be breezed over.  He almost appreciated the effort, if he weren't screaming in terror on the inside.

But he knew there was nothing he could do now about it, and slumped onto his bed at that realization.  The rain outside pounded at the earth, thunder cracking overhead, grumbling through the atmosphere as Ford drew himself up to sit against the headboard and stare blankly at the pitter-patter of raindrops on the windows.  He heard the squeak of the other bed as Stan crawled under the sheets, turning his back to Ford without a word.

Maybe that was for the best.  All Ford wanted to do was yell, curse, shake his brother into reality, hug him, tell him it'd be okay and nothing and no one could hurt him, but then, how could he save Stan from himself?  It seemed like an impossible task, because he didn't even _know_ what was wrong, what was behind everything. 

Another monsterous clash of thunder that rattled the windows and made the ground shake.  It made a shudder run through Ford at the memories of the swelling tides, the foaming surf that twisted and mawed upwards, of the chilled rain that fell in sheets as he ran, and ran, and ran, seeing his brother standing precariously close to the edge of the pier...

Stan twisted and turned in his bed, before - grumbling in irritation - threw the blankets off of himself and padded the few feet between them, pillow grasped in his grip as his eyes implored.  But it wasn't the grouchy old man he saw, but a young Stan in rocket-ship pajamas and a trembling lip poked outwards, fresh tears sparkling in those bright eyes, afraid as their apartment rattled along with the ocean's vengeance.

Like he did every other time his brother had stood at his bed, afraid, Ford pulled back the covers and let them fall as Stan crawled under and leaned his head into Ford's hip, threw his injured arm across his waist, and breathed in relief.

"It's not your fault, ya know," Stan finally said, face hidden.  "I can see it in your body language that that's what you think.  And I don't want you to worry, and I don' want you to be afraid."

Ford rested his head back against the headboard and closed his eyes, fingers seeking out Stan's hand under the blankets and squeezing.  "What kind of older brother would I be if I didn't worry, Stanley?"

"The kind that's afraid of thunder and needed comforting," Stan mumbled, voice sleepy.

Ford's lips twitched at that.  "Ah, still using that old excuse to use me as a pillow, huh?"

"Mmhmm," he hummed between a yawn.  It had been minutes, and Ford had thought him asleep when he heard the whisper, "Ford?"

"Yes, Stanley?" he asked, eyes still closed, the warmth of his brother nestled against his side almost enough to suck him into slumber.

"Can you promise you won't leave me again?"

"I'll be right here in the morning, Knucklehead."

Ford wasn't sure the last time he'd taken comfort in the rain, letting the rhythmic pitter-patter lull him into slumber, wasn't sure the last time the bright flashes of lightning and rattling thunder were like a mother's caress.  But with the weight of Stan pressed close, and their fingers locked, Ford felt like he were twelve again, and slept soundlessly for the first time in ages.

 

 

 

 


	3. The calm Before the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Delving a bit into the past this chapter, with some silliness toward the end. This is kind of a break chapter between when things get heavy and the twins set sail. Triggers include depression, suicidal ideas, alcohol use and drug allusions.

Late September was a time of indeterminate weather patterns on the Jersey coast, as summer and coming winter warred it out over the great Atlantic expanse.  In a week, it could be in the seventies and sunny, only to turn to three days of bitter cold as rain pelted down in sheets.  It was going to be one of those evening, he was sure; all throughout the day the sky had darkened as clouds lazily slid in, building high into the atmosphere, wind building to a bluster that sent seafoam high into the air along the coast.

Because of such, Ford had ended his usual Tuesday tutoring sessions early as he kept a watchful eye on the forecast, feeling it in his bones that this storm was going to be a doozy.  He stayed after class long enough to answer the most asked questions of the day as his fellow classmates stared at him in confusion, stayed just a little longer to help a sophomore calculate the conversions of moles in chemistry, before packing his bag chock full of books and headed out before it hit four'o'clock.

Stan had needed to attend the session, he thought dully on his way home, cutting through the grocer's parking lot.  But of course his twin brother was nowhere to be found, and hadn't been since he started dating Carla over the summer.  They were inseparable, those two.  Spending hours together, long into the night, at the Juke Hop or along the beach.  And when school came, Ford barely saw his brother, as he spent long hours at the school laboratory on research, and Stan spent long hours at Carla's side.  Their pet project sat untouched on the coast, and Ford fought to keep himself from blaming the brunette with wide eyes and an infectious smile.

She was a year younger than the twins, and a bright girl with top marks in her class, that had often come the prior year to tutoring, just to stay ahead and have an idea what her classes expected of her the next year.  Stan often joked how she was a girl-nerd and the equivalent of a female Ford, and had even begun trying to set the two up until the school year dwindled off and summer came.  And Stan found himself smitten with the long-haired girl spinning a hulahoop in time to the crashing waves, throwing it up and catching it methodically as she twirled and spun to some internal rhythm.  More and more throughout the summer Ford caught his brother trailing off on the beach to stare at her with a goofy grin on his face, until Ford had had enough and dragged his brother over.

"Carla, this is Stan, you know him from tutoring.  Stan, don't be a coward and _talk to her_ ," he'd hissed.

Sometimes, he regretted it, like days he only saw Stan as he strolled in a minute before his curfew at eight, and heated up his cold supper, to spend the rest of the evenings watching Wheel of Fortune.  Other times, he hated himself for the idea to take away Stan's happiness.  And happy he was; his brother's smile shone like a supernova as he blabbered on about Carla, and Ford had to admit Stan's grades had been steadily improving with her insistence that Stan needed to try harder.  She was a steady constant, and a good influence to his often-times troubled brother.

Ford huffed a sigh as he walked into the parlor of their house that had been turned into a psychic's office years before, bamboo beads  decorating the archway that went to the hall beyond, and the steep staircase that lead up to their apartment they called home.  Colourful scarves hung like tapestries behind a beat up circular table covered in thick maroon velvet with a glowing crystal globe in the center, books with cracked leather bindings with archaic symbols littering the built-in shelves that had once been for expensive dinner china, but now housed dragon statutes and ceramic faeries of all kinds.  His mother, black hair bundled in a loose bun on her head, looked up over her turtouise-shelled glasses, concern flitting across her face.

"Where's Stanley?" she asked, ring-covered fingers steepling over her bright, lipstick painted lips as she looked around him toward the door, waiting. 

Ford shrugged as he hiked his heavy bag higher on his shoulders.  "I dunno, Ma, with Carla?"

She shook her head, tendrils of black curls loosening from the bun and falling around her face.  "No, your  brotha' came home after school, and asked to borrow the car to pick you up, in case the storm broke before you finished tutoring the students.  He left about half an hour ago."

Ford shrugged again and offered her a smile to soften the concern flitting across her face.  "You know how easily Stan gets distracted, he's probably at the corner store buying a jaw breaker, or at the arcade playing that stupid game he loves.  Anyway, we all left early to avoid getting caught in the rain, we may have just missed each other.  I'm sure he'll be home shortly."  He crossed over to her, giving her a kiss on the cheek as he headed upstairs.

It rang odd that Stan would have even bothered to  pick him up in the rain with how distant his brother had been lately.  He shrugged his concern off though, knowing Stan had probably just lied to have a private place to neck with Carla for a few hours.  Rolling his eyes Ford dropped his bag at the end of his bed as he pulled out a pen and notebook; he'd already finished this week's homework, but he still needed to draft out a study guide for his tutor group.  He dropped into the worn chair at the beat-up desk littered with textbooks and pages of scribbled studies, stained with ink spots where a well-pen had mysteriously exploded.  He started shoving papers away from the central work area, when a folded piece of paper caught his eye.  Stuck halfway under his calculus and chemistry book, it was almost easy to miss, the looseleaf paper folded into thirds, poking out gingerly, almost like it was trying to be missed.  What furled his brows was the blocky handwriting of his brother that scrawled a messy "Stanford" across a folded edge.

"What the," he mumbled to himself, confused.  Stan rarely ever used Ford's full name unless he was pissed and invoking the wraths that be.  He settled in, fingers steeped over his lips as he read the messy note, thunder echoing in the distance.

_Stanford,_

_It's all yours, bro.  The room, the bed, this shitty desk you already claimed years ago, the cold and wet basement, the snacks I have hidden in that cabinet Ma can't reach, the cigarettes under the bed you hate, the porn magazines under that loose floorboard by the dresser, Ma and Pa, the beach, the boat, the pier, the waves, it's all yours bro.  I'm tired.  I'm the loser, the dud, I'm the one no one wants, the one no one cares about, the idiot, the fuckup, the goof off, the cheap second, the moron, the forgotten, the miserable.  I'm exhausted._

Ford's hands shook as he scanned the words, mind whirling numbly about the possibilities.

 _Have you ever just wanted to stop, Ford?  Have you ever just wanted to stop breathing and see how it felt?  Have you ever just wanted to die, Ford?  To just not_ **be** _anymore?  Because I do.  I want to die.  I want to stop existing, stop worrying, stop_ feeling _every damn thing.  It hurts, and I'm bitter, and I'm just done.  I'm done, Ford.  I'm so_ done _with everything.  With being second-best.  With being a shadow.  With giving, and giving, only to have everything shatter.  I'm done, and tired, and I'm sorry, Ford.  I'm so sorry.  I wasn't the best brother in the world, but now you don't have to worry about that anymore.  Now you don't have to worry at all.  I'm sorry, Ford.  I'm so sorry._

Ford barely recognized as the words blurred and he bolted up, ice sliding through his veins as the words echoed in his head.  He barely realized the wetness sliding down his cheeks as he took the stairs two at a time, barely realized his mother calling after as he bolted down the street, barely heard the thunder as it rolled overhead. 

"Damnit, damnit, damnit!" he hissed to himself, the air like knives shooting through his lungs as he ran.  How had he missed this shift in Stan? How had he ignored this bitter depression that Stan seemed to have been swallowed in?  What kind of brother was he that he didn't notice the change, didn't notice the misery?  If anything happened to him, if Ford was too late, he'd never forgive himself.  "I can't be too late," he begged bitterly as the skies opened up and rain poured recklessly from the clouds.

He didn't know where he was going, didn't know where he was running, until the bitter seaside roiled into view, waves lapping up dangerously toward the sky as the rain pelted down, soaking him to the bone.  But he felt nothing but the icy dread that filled him, the panic that clawed at his throat, heard nothing but the pounding of his heart in his head at each desperate jog he took. 

He wasn't sure what pulled him toward the pier like a magnet, but as he cut through the drugstore parkinglot and turned onto the beachside stretch, his heart leapt seeing the cherry-red, hard-top car parked by a timed-out meter.  The panic swelled once more as he ran around the car, peering into windows and not spotting a sign of his brother.  But he couldn't stop and ran with desperation on his heels across the waterlogged sand down the beach, little rivulets of rain streaming down his glasses lens, fogging the image of the lonely swingset.

"Damnit, where are you?" he asked, voice catching in his throat as he turned and combed the beach over.  The rising waves, crashing hard onto the soft sand of the Atlantic made him shudder, seafoam twisting and curling as the waves mawed upward toward the unforgiving skies that pounded sheets of rain downward. 

And then something caught his eye.  Something white.  He squinted against the rain, heart stopping as his feet flew over the sand before his mind made sense of the figure standing at the edge of the rickety pier beyond the guard rails.  The sand seemed to grab at his ankles, trying to slow him, but everything be damned, he wasn't going to stop.  As he neared the figure turned into a soaked Stanley, large hands loosely holding onto the water-logged rail, one red converse suspended over the raging water below.

"Stanley!" he yelled as his feet clamored on the wood, thudding like his heart on the planks.  "Stanley, don't do this.  _Please_!"

"Go away, Stanford," Stan said brokenly, refusing to move.  "I've got nothin' left in me."

Ford shook from the fear that clawed at him.  He wanted to be angry, to be hateful, he wanted to run over and pull Stan from the edge and bash his face in, he wanted to hug his brother until all the bad things in the world escaped, but he could do nothing but stand frozen in place, a hand reached outward, suspended as rain pelted downward. 

"It'll be okay, Stan.  We'll figure this out," he choked out at last, head spinning as he forgot how to breathe.  "Let's go home, okay?"

"Damnit, Ford!" Stan hissed as he spun, face a broken mask of hurt.  "Why are you so _nice_?  Why aren't you angry?  Why can't you just _hate_ me like everyone else?  Like Carla...She was _everything_ , Ford!  The first girl to give a damn about stupid ol' Stanley.  The first girl to make my heart do stupid flutters, the first girl that I really wanted to kiss, the first girl that let me do more than kiss...and she's gone, okay?  She's gone, and I just want to die!"

He'd never seen his brother look so beaten down, so broken, as he did clinging to the railing with whitened knuckles, more than just rain streaming down his red cheeks, caramel eyes glittering craziedly, usual slicked back and gelled hair clinging in wet curls to his face.  He looked lost as lightening reflected off the swelling ocean and crashed in waves against the pier-poles below.

"The Stanley Pines I know isn't a quitter," he said, the shiver in his voice betraying the words.  "The Stanley Pines I know is a street-smart, tactical alleycat that would do anything to make the kid with the scraped knee smile, that would take a beating to defend his stupid brother.  The Stanley Pines I know wouldn't leave his twin by himself in this crazy, unforgiving world.  The Stanley Pines I know existed before Carla McCorkle, and will continue to exist after her."

The clear anger fell with Stan's face as he shook his head, curls flying.  "You don't understand how much it hurts, Ford."

"I don't?" he squeaked, voice pitching as he swallowed around the lump in his throat.  "Try imagining losing the one person that's always been there all your life, try imagining being angry, and afraid, and thinking it's all your fault if you don't find him in time.  Try imagining that."  Ford shook his head as the tears mixed with the rain and he took those few ginger steps forward, six fingers reaching out.  "I thought I lost you, 'Lee."

Stan's fingers tightened on the banister for a moment before loosening, those golden eyes staring at him almost hatefully.  "I hope this hurts you as much as it does me," he said, words tumbling out of his mouth as he leaned back, letting his weight carry him over the edge of the pier, to be swallowed up by the dark waters below.

" _LEE!_ "

...

Ford jerked awake with his heart racing, sweat chilled in a tacky substance between his shoulders, fear crawling up his throat and choking back the sound that tried to escape.  It took a beat to realize that he was sitting up in bed and had been for a while by the way his shoulders ached, took another to realize it was still night, and that rain still tinked against the panes of glass on the windows.  The weight that was settled across his lap shifted and Stan popped his head up from Ford's hip, a cat-like yawn falling from his lips.

"You 'kay?" Stan mumbled tiredly, still half-asleep. 

"Yes, yes, go back to sleep, Knucklehead," Ford replied effortlessly as Stan's head hit the bed and started softly snoring again.  He waited until he was sure his brother was asleep before slipping out from under the blanket and Stan's arm and turned to the window, the edges of the dream still gnawing at him.  And a dream it was; in reality, Stan had ducked under the banister of the pier and clung to him desperately as the rain pounded them both.  But in his dreams, Stan always took that final step back and disappeared beneath the waves; in his dreams, he always lost his brother.

Shaking the thoughts away, he stared out and watched the rain falling steadily from the sky.  He may not have lost Stanley that day, but he lost him over and over again throughout their tremetulous history.   And he was determined not to let history repeat itself this time around.

But that would be harder to do when he wasn't entirely sure where Stan's problems lay, and knew that Stan was still too aloof to talk about what was going on inside himself.  He'd always had a hard time talking about his emotions, until he had bottled them up so far the glass shattered and the bottle blew up, and by that point Stan was usually right on the edge of personal destruction.  All Ford knew at this point was Stan was struggling, and he'd find a way to help him through it, because he knew how hard it was to go it alone.

Pushing his glasses up his nose, he settled in at the breakfast nook, ankles crossed, laptop open, fingers flying over the keys as he delved into research to keep his mind busy and the image of Stanley's lost face at bay as he fell through the portal.

...

Hushed, angry whispers with a key of irritation was what Stan woke to.  He tossed and turned, hoping it was just the buzz of the television set, but the voice only became more irritable and clipped, and he pushed himself awake grumbling.  Rubbing his eyes he popped his glasses on, ignoring the bitter sting of his arm from the night before, and glared angrily across the room where Ford was pacing the tight circle the corded phone allowed for.

"Yep, no body is trying to sleep over here or anything," he said gruffly, crossing his arms as Ford held up a finger dismissively and continued his chat.

"Wednesday is the soonest you can do, even with expedited shipping?  Are you sure?  Well, I guess that will have to do.  Yes, yes, thank you, please go ahead and place that order."  He hung the phone back into its cradle and turned to Stan, a brow cocked, amused.  "Well, good morning, Sleeping Beauty, I'm so sorry to have awakened you at nearly noon."

"As you should be, peasant," Stan replied irritably as he checked the clock for validity of that statement.  "Jesus, my head hurts."

"That's usually what happens when you drink your weight in booze," Ford said nonchalantly, giving him a look.  "There's aspirin on the table there, Princess."

"Ha-ha, so funny," Stan said, rolling his eyes as he popped the aspirin in his mouth and swallowed a gulp of luke-warm water.  He gave his brother a once-over, noticing the dark circles under his eyes, the five'o'clock shadow from a few days worth of neglect, the touselled hair that curled at the ends, still wet...and from what?  It was then he noticed that it was still raining, and his heart paused for a moment, thinking that Ford had left.  "Did you not sleep well?"

He shrugged.  "I slept like usual, Stan, I've just been up plotting nautical maps and trying to get parts ordered for the repairs to the ship."

"So you left."

"You were sleeping, and I had to see the damage sooner or later," Ford replied carefully as he folded his hands together.  "I said I'd be here in the morning, Knucklehead, and I am."

Stan grumbled something to himself as he climbed out of bed and stretched, wincing as the skin on his injured arm pulled taught against the stitches.  "I'll pay you back for the repairs."

Ford waved the thought away.  "Sure you will, by getting dressed and buying me pancakes, I'm starving."

Stan snorted, the anger melting away.  "Pancakes for lunch?  What the Hell are you, a kid?"

Before either of them could answer, the cell phone laying on the table buzzed to life, ringing with one of Mabel's jingles.  Instantly, Stan felt his mood improve as he tugged on a fresh shirt and heard her voice ring through the room as Ford picked the phone up.

"Grunkle Ford!  Oh my gosh, you look like a zombie!  Have you not been eating and sleeping like you should?  Grunkle Stan, you promise to watch out for him!  Wait...where's Grunkle Stan?"

"I'm getting dressed, sweetie, talk to my brother," he called as Ford gave him a look that promised he'd pay for this later.

"Okay, good!" Mabel sound, bounding in the frame of the FaceTime chat, a ball of energy unable to stay still.  "Because I actually called because I'm having a hard time with my math homework, and Dipper tries to help me, but he makes it _so_ much harder."

"I do not!" came the indignant sound from the other twin in the background. 

"And there's the girl that likes Dipper, but he's being a total dweeb about it--"

" _I am not!_ "

"Girl?  That likes Dipper?" Stan's ears perked as he slid behind Ford's shoulder and looked down at the rainbow smile of his niece.  "Now this I gotta hear."

Instead, he watched his niece's face turn to one of concern as she poked abjectly at the screen.  "Oh my god, Grunkle Stan, what happened to your arm?"

Shit, he'd forgotten all about that.  Sliding it out of view, he fumbled.  "Well, I, uhhhh--"

"Just a simple accident," Ford supplied with a graceful shrug.  "Who knew fabricated metal was so sharp?  It's nothing serious, and I'm looking after it myself, so no need to worry, dearest."

"I'd think you both would know, having worked on the portal and all," grumbled Dipper off screen, catching the warning in Ford's eye and turned away.  "But then again you both are old and senile so!"

"That's my boy, finally stickin' it to the man," Stan said with a grin as he pulled the phone roughly from his brother's hand and settled in with the younger twins.  "So, tell me about this girl!"

"Ohmygod, Stan, so--"

Ford watched from the bathroom as he brushed his teeth, peering at his brother from the reflection in the mirror, watching his face light up in amusement and something akin to pride as the girl relayed the story of the young maiden that was swooning over their nephew, desperate to win his affection, even though he barely paid her any mind.  Apparently the girl had been interested for years, but only began her campaign for Dipper's feelings when she saw pictures of him with Wendy, and had been since rigging projects to work with him, and he was oblivious.  Ford smiled at the thought as he walked into the room, finger-combing his curls into place, when his belly growled fiercely.

"Well, it appears that my brother is ravenous, and may try to eat me if we don't find food for him," Stan said with a grin, wriggling his fingers at the screen ominously. 

"Speaking of which, you _promised_ to make sure Grunkle Ford ate and slept like a decent human being!  He looks like he's lost weight!  And I know he isn't sleeping, he looks just like Dipper does when he's reading his dumb books all night."

"Hard to take care of someone that doesn't take care of himself," Stan grumbled, receiving a cutting look from Ford as he grabbed the phone from his reluctant twin's hands.

"Speaking of sleep, why are you up so early, starchild?" Ford asked knowingly as she ducked her eyes and pulled nervously at her hair.  "Bad dreams?"

Exasperated, she nodded, eyes darting over her shoulder at the figure of her brother tucked over a reading lamp on a scattered and messy desk, Wendy's hat bobbing as he nodded to himself at whatever he was doing.  "Yeah...some nights are good!  But then sometimes the bad nights come, and then I just can't sleep anymore after.  But you know, right, Grunkle Ford? What do you do when you have them?"

He nodded, distinctly aware of Stan watching him expressionlessly across the room.  "Probably the same as you, buttercup.  Sit up nervously making sure he's still breathing until the sun comes up and all the bad seems to melt away.  Which is fine for an old man like myself, but a young girl such as yourself needs her rest," he said pointedly as she yawned big.  "Get some sleep this morning, Mabel, and I'll help you later tonight with your homework, okay?"

"Promise?"

"Pinky swear," he said, wiggling his pinkie at the camera, to the chagrin of the young girl. 

"Okay.  Goodnight, Grunkle Ford, goodnight., Grunkle Stan!"

"Goodnight, sweetie," Stan said as he waved to the camera until it disconnected and clicked automatically back to the home screen.  He stared at his brother as he got up and shrugged into a coat, stared until - groaning, Ford turned back with his arms crossed, a scowl on his face.

"What, Stanley?"

"Is that why you were awake so early, another nightmare?"

Ford rolled his eyes and started popping things into his coat pockets; keycard for the room, cell phone, wallet, pocket knife, pen, small journal, this and that as he ignored his brother staring down his back.  He was stepping out the door when Stan's hand found its place firmly on his shoulder, and Ford shut his eyes against the image of his teenage brother throwing himself off the pier into the crashing storm surf.

"If every nightmare, every bad dream, every terrible thought that crossed my mind gave me pause, I'd be in a nut house long ago, Stanley.  I don't want to talk about it, I just want to go downtown and sit at a terrible old booth with cracked vinyl seats and eat pancakes.  That's all I want, Stanley.  Please."

Grumbling, Stan moved his hand away and followed his older brother out of the room into the drizzle that crept from the sky in a steady grey haze.  "You don't have to be so pissy."

"You don't have to worry about me so much," Ford grumbled back as he jammed his hands into his deep pockets and moved swiftly down the street toward the old diner.

"What kind of brother would I be if I didn't?" Stan asked mockingly, receiving a grim look as response as they clamoured into the diner that hadn't changed since they were kids.  It was almost instinct that they gravitated toward the old booth in the back corner with old black and white pictures yellowing at the edges of the town in the 30's framed and displayed, that matched the terrible black and white pattern linoleum that was cracked on the floor.  The old jukebox sat tarnished over the years, the pink neon lights on the inside just as bright as they had been in their childhood.  And Stan saw in his mind's eye two twin boys fighting over the nickel they shared and who got to choose a song, until the jovial diner owner, pink smile from ear to ear came over with a second nickel and left it for the boys.

Ford watched wearily as Stan's fingers brushed the wood paneling under the table, watched as a smile broke over his twin's face at realization as his fingertips traced the carved "S+F 4ever".

"Remember how bad Ma beat our butts when she found out we carved that into the wall?" Ford asked after their order was written down and taken to the kitchen.  "We were such shits."

Stan chuckled as in no time the waitress came back with their orders, a steaming piles of hotcakes for Ford with scrambled eggs, and ham and hash for Stan.  They ate in silence, and Stan watched as his brother devoured the meal without stopping to breathe.  It bothered him more than he let know; Ford had always eaten with quiet precision, going from one item to the next, never crossing over the boundries he'd made on his plate, but ever since he stepped from the portal he ate nearly ravenously, as if food was a short-coming.  And he was sure it was, and often worried with a panged heart how often his brother went to sleep hungry beyond the portal, but of course Ford wouldn't talk about those adventures.

"So what're the plans for today?" he asked as he gingerly buttered a piece of complimentary toast, scanning the grey horizon, drizzle still sliding from the sky without an end in sight. 

Ford sat back, letting his fork fall with a clamour to the plate as he tipped back his dark and dreadful coffee, eyes following the same sightline as Stan.  "Well, I was actually going to leave that up to you.  Since the _Stan'o'War_ is out of commission until at least Wednesday, I thought we could do something you might enjoy."

A yellowed grin spread from ear to ear.  "Anything?"

...

They ended up in the dive bar of their childhood, smell of smoke heavy in the stagnant air, dim barlights hiding the indescribable stains on the cracked tile floors, cheap crystal glasses winking rainbow prisms on the old wallpaper.  Two video game machines sat in the back corner, 8-bit graphics jumping on the dust screens, and a dart board was still hanging over cheap corkboard at the back of the bar.  Ford chuckled to himself, thinking that it had been perfectly acceptable in the 70's for youth such as Stanley and himself to be here, enjoying the games among the adult patrons that complained about the war over malt beverages, but if he so much as caught the younger twins in a place like this, he'd surely kick someone's ass.

Perched on a barstool, cue in hand and chalked up, sweating beer popped open on the table, he raised his brow as Stan racked up the balls.  "You remember how I'd run your game, correct?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Stan breathed, flipping his twin off as he grabbed a cue off the wall and chalked the end blue.  "Here's the deal, Sixer.  Every ball I sink, I get to ask you a question about the past you refuse to talk about, and likewise.  You in?"

Ford shrugged as he sat back.  "If you can sink any balls, sure thing, Stanley.  I'm in."

Stan leaned over the table, reared his arm back, and connected hard with the balls that scattered across the table.  By chance, a ball fell into a corner pocket and Stan leaned over the table again, calling the side pocket, and letting a ball fall in without so much as hesitation.  Ford's face fell as Stan sat up with a shit-eating grin plastered on his face.

"What the Hell, Stan," Ford breathed.

"You forget, for ten years I lived in dive bars running the table for extra dough.  You taught me a lot there, bro," Stan said, shooting Ford a wink.  "Now, we'll start easy.  Ever do drugs?"

Ford felt a pang in his chest of pride that Stan had actually watched and learned the game from their teenage days, but that was instantly erased by the desperate need to win this game.  Slugging back a gulp of beer, he glared at his brother.  "Fiddleford was a two years ahead of me in college, the senior, the cool guy, and often would drag me away from my studies on Friday nights to 'enjoy the social scene'.  And, of course, I let him because I wanted to be able to learn as much from his brilliant mind as I could in those days.  Long story short," he said with a grim smile as he leaned over the table, calling the corner pocket as he shot and sunk a ball.  "It involved a lot of pot brownies and thinking I was made exclusively to be the shadow-puppet king.  How about you?"

Stan laughed at the image of Ford, stoned out of his mind, making shadow puppets with a bunch of hippies around a bon-fire.  In answer he gave a nod as he took a sip of his drink.  "I ran drugs across borders for Rico, Sixer.  I always tried the product before dispensing it to customers.  I may have had a Hell of a coke problem back in the day."

Ford sat the cue back on the table and aimed again, knocking some balls around, and cursed.  He always had an idea that Stan had a drug problem, always quietly swept the idea under the rug of his mind, but it hurt to hear out loud.  He was taking another long pull from the beer when Stan shot and succeeded once more.

"Are you gay?" the question came, and Ford choked, eyes burning as he struggled to breathe. 

"W-w-what?" he managed to choke out between coughs, face turning an ungodly shade of red.  "What made you think _that_?"

Stan shrugged.  "It's okay if you are, bro.  You just, y'know, never really seemed to have a high interest in all the young cats that surrounded us as horny teenage boys."

"I'm not gay," Ford grumbled, ruffling his hair in frustration.  "My attention was on my academics then, sure, but that doesn't make me gay, Meathead."

Stan shrugged, ignoring how flustered he'd made his brother as he lined up another shot and sunk it, much to Ford's dismay.  "Okay then, Sixer, fine; are you still a virgin?"

" _Stanley_!" Ford hissed, ears flaming red once more at the nonchalant way Stan asked.  "I clearly need a stronger drink for this, asshole," he growled as he wandered to the bar and had a stiff whiskey poured, all while Stan popped a cigarette in his mouth and lit it, hardly bothered by how flustered Ford was at the questions.

"Well?" he asked with a brow cocked when Ford returned and turned up his drink with a steady hand.  "Are you?"

"No, Stanley, I'm not, just because I didn't lose it when I was sixteen like _someone_ I know - _in my bed_ , too, which I'm still really pissed about, you animal - doesn't mean I'm still a virgin.  There's thirty long years you don't know anything about," Ford hissed as Stan's face turned to interest.

Of course, Stan sunk the next ball, making Ford curse.  "So, are you saying you banged hot alien chicks, and as a side note, please include a story of banging said hot alien chicks."

Ford slammed back another whiskey, fingers beginning to tingle at the burn that slid easily down his throat and lit his belly on fire.  "I lost it in college to a flower child I met at a bonfire one night I was stoned.  Turns out, she was really just interested in what six fingers could do in bed," he glowered, the memory still stinging. "I went into the portal at a young man's sexual prime.  It was on the backburner; I learned how to survive first and foremost in a world that was out to get me, dead or alive.  Sometimes, the bloodlust of survival was enough excitement to stamp out any urges a man may have."

"So, you're trying to tell me you'd be a regular Christian Grey in bed now," Stan said with a smile as Ford shot him a look.

"I made a living as a bounty hunter when I could.  Sometimes, I took side jobs.  One such job involved security for a princess - they wanted the most lethal, the best, at her side, as she was a heavy target during her public appearances before the scheduled wedding that would be mating two colonies together.  It was an easy job and paid well in a dimension that Bill hadn't gotten his claws into yet, it was perfect.  Except the princess had....questionable taste.  So I may have been banned from that particular dimension for stealing the princess' innocence."

"You dog," Stan said with a laugh as he aimed and missed. 

Ford wasn't going to give Stan the satisfaction of running the game any longer, and with ease sunk two balls in opposing corners.  "Why'd you take my name, and what's the worst thing you did under it?"

Stan shrugged as he popped the top of another beer and took a swig.  "Stanford had something to live for; a house, an education, research.  Stanley didn't, Stanley was a lowlife drug peddler in hot water with the Mexican government.  And...well, the worst things I've done were as me.  You, however, are married to a gold plated statue."

Ford ignored the sinking feeling at the answer as he aimed and slammed another ball into a corner pocket.  "What was your worst fear?"

"That I killed my best friend," Stan answered solumnly as Ford - caught off guard - missed his next shot.  Stan lined up and sunk it.  "Why do you carry that picture with you everywhere?"

Ford startled at the question, and going immediately to the breast pocket of his coat before stopping himself.  "I was pissed when my project broke, pissed when I lost m chance at the greatest school known in those days, pissed and angry and I didn't _care._   Ma had packed up my books, and I found the picture one day during my research, and it _hurt_ , because I didn't know where you were, what you were doing.  Motivation was a hard thing in college without my one constant, without my personal cheerleader at my back.  The picture helped, through undergrad, through my multiple graduate programs, through moving cross-country and delving into anomalies.  It helped when I was beyond the portal and felt like I'd rather be dead than try to get through the Hell I was in.  It gave me a reason to keep going, knowing you were on the other side.  It probably means the most out of all my possessions."

Stan's face was unreadable as he took a shot and missed, hand deceptively wobbly.  Ford ignored the subtle change as he took the shot.  "What's been the hardest thing in life for you?"

Stan sat back on the stool, hands kneeding together as he shrugged, a bitter laugh falling from his lips.  "You'd think it'd be being penniless, being hungry, being a drug-lord's lacky, being beaten and abused, being strung out, being used until there was nothing good left to give.  You'd think teaching myself advanced physics, working through your damn cryptograms, you'd think that would be hard.  But none of that was hard, compared to watching my brother turn away when Dad kicked me out."

Ford felt like he was kicked in the gut at those words.  He swallowed back the bitter taste of bile that swelled with the shame as he stared at the greasy teenage visage of his brother with a duffle bag thrown over his shoulder, hand outstretched toward their shared window, brown eyes pleading, begging for him to say anything.  And all he'd done was turn away from the brother that bandaged his scraped knees, the brother that shared his ice cream when his had fallen from his cone to the sweltering ground, the brother that dealt with his light night studies without ever complaining, the brother that took the blame when a tacky vase had shattered in Ma's studio when he'd been horsing around.  "Stan, I'm sorry, I--"

"Stop it, Ford, it's in the past, okay?  Take your shot."

His heart wasn't in it, his head swirling with guilt as he took the shot, fumbling and missing hitting everything.  He barely saw the purple solid swing into the bottom corner, barely heard the gravely voice ask:

"Why'd you hate me?"

Ford startled at that as he turned and looked - really looked - at Stanley.  His eyes were turned down and he saw the candy-striped kid he grew up with, hair a wind-blown mess, feet kicking the sand, eyes turned down and away, hands twisted in circles behind his back.  Shaking his head, the image cleared and there was Stan, beer in hand.  "Stanley, I never hated you.  I _couldn't_ hate you if I tried.  I was pissed, I was mad, I was a lot of things, but most of all I was a crappy, selfish brother.  And there's nothing I can do to change that.  But I still kept up with you, I still knew what you were doing, most of the time, still knew roughly where you were in the world.  Who do you think really posted your anonymous bails?  How do you think I knew where to send your invitation to Gravity Falls?  Why didn't you ever a _sk_ me for help?"

"You haven't made a ball yet," Stan answered cooly, turning away as he smashed his cigarette butt out into an ashtray. 

Throwing his hands in the air in surrender, Ford pushed himself off the stool.  "I need a break," he said as he slammed into the single stall restroom, mind spinning.  What had always hurt worse than knowing Stan was a drug lord's lacky, knowing Stan put himself in illegal situations, knowing Stan was down and out on his luck was that his twin had never called, never written, never came with a request for help.  That his brother felt like he _couldn't_ ask for help.  Knowing it was his fault that Stan didn't trust him as a safety net any longer.

When Ford pushed back into the smokey bar, he froze.  Stan was no where to be seen, and panic swelled.  Before the words could fall from his lips, the bar tender pointed a finger toward the door, and Ford bolted out into the mist that clung heavy.  He gazed to and fro, and relief eased his aching muscles as he found the black-coated figure down the slight hill, swinging from the old metal set that sat on the soggy sands.  The sand squelched under his boots as he trod over, hands deep in his pockets, mist hanging from his curls as e took a seat in the other swing and stared out at the calmed ocean, frothy foam washing ashore rhythmically. 

Stan's voice broke the silence between them.  "You really think we'll find hot babes when you finally set sail?"

"Oh, I'm sure, you are a real ladies' man from what Dipper tells me about Darlene," Ford said, a smile to his voice.  "You could have told me you were leaving."

"Needed some fresh air, was gettin' heavy in there," Stan said with a shrug.  "Remember when we'd come here as kids and see who could jump the farthest?"

"You always won because I was scrawny," Ford answered, bemused.  "Although, I'm sure I could give you a run for your money these days."

"Is that a challenge?"

The answer came with kicking boots as Ford tried to gain height on the children's toy.  The sun glittered behind grey clouds, the silver light ominously like the portal, glowing in a ring that bounced from the wet particles clinging to the thick air, as he threw himself off, only to have his heart stop when he heard:

"No!  I can't lose him again!  I just got him back!"

Landing with a _thud_ , Ford turned on his heel, Stan's eyes glazed over at whatever he was seeing in his head, shaking hand outstretched.  Ford hurried over, hands grasping Stan's shoulder roughly and shaking, afraid of what he had triggered. 

"Stan, Stanley, it's alright, come on, Knucklehead, it's okay.   I'm still here, just listen to my voice, okay, you'll be okay."

Slowly Stan seemed to come out of whatever he was seeing, hand dropping to his side, shuddering breath coming from his lips as he shook his head, the last tendrils of memory fading.  "Sheesh, guess we know not to do that again, huh, nerd?"

Of course, conman Stan trying to downplay the utter fright that Ford had seen just a moment before.  But he wasn't going to let his brother off so easy this time.  "Why are you so afraid of losing me, Stan?"

"You were the only real person afraid of losing me," Stan said with his head down, thumb circling his wrist where the bandage glared dangerously at them both.  "The only one worried about the stupid shit I did.  You were the one picking up the pieces when I tempted fate being reckless.  And then you were gone, and I didn't know what happened, where you were, or worse, if I had killed you.  When you stepped through the portal, I didn't care if you hated me or not, you were back, you were safe, and that was enough for me."

Ford took Stan's hand, placing it softly against the thick wool of his sweater with a knowing look.  "What did I tell you, Stanley?  As long as this thing is thudding in my chest, I'm not going anywhere."

Stan shoved, catching Ford off guard, windmilling his arms, only to stumble over the sand that sunk under his feet and fell back onto his rump in the wet.  "And what'd I tell you about mushy stuff, Sixer?"

Smiling, Ford grabbed Stan by the ankle and pulled.  The man let out a curse as the swing betrayed him and he fell into a heap into the wet sand.  Ford laughed as Stan sat up, mud sliding down his hair, a moment before Stan howled and threw himself at his brother.  They wrestled, all limbs and elbows, curses and laughter as six-fingered hands found the sensitive spots on Stan's sides like reflex and tickled. 

"Oh my god, mercy, mercy!" Stan bellowed as he caught his breath, trying to fend off his older brother unsuccessfully.  Ford sat back, soaked ad sandy, hands up in knowing surrender as he looked out toward the horizon, a peaceful smile on his face.

"We're pretty screwed up, aren't we?" he finally said.

"We're Pines, it's in our blood to be fucked," Stan replied with a chuckle.  "At least we have each other in that, huh?"

Ford threw an affectionate arm around his brother's wet and soppy shoulders.  "Wouldn't have it any other way."

"Hey Ford?"

"Hmm?"

"I know there's a lot we have to figure out, a lot we have to get through, a lot that still doesn't make sense, and I know I'm not at my best, and I'm not whole, and there's a lot of missing pieces left out there somewhere.  But...I'm glad you're here to help me through it.  And I know I don't say it ever, but...thanks.  And, really...I missed you, Sixer."

"What kind of brother would I be if I weren't here for you?" he said, using their typical default answer, deflecting the fear, regret, guilt and shame he felt inside from all those times he _wasn't_ there.  As the sun sunk low through the clouds, and the brightest stars began to pop through in the sky, a glittering wash of constellations playing hide-and-seek, he gave his brother a squeeze.  "I missed you too, Knucklehead."


	4. At night We Wander on

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter: Bill (right? Maybe?)

The storm broke completely by Monday, clouds burning off with the dull August sun, leaving just a kiss of moisture to the air, the hint of promise.  As the soggy town dried by the sun's natural rays, parts began to arrive to fix the gaping hole grinning in the helm of the ship.  The two twins worked together, pulling the broken and blistered boards loose, sanding down ragged edges, installing the new exterior paneling, sealing it with apoxy and sealant.  They worked in time like a well-oiled machine, knowing just who was where and what needed to be done, but there still was a thread of tension between the two, a thread Ford couldn't quite place.

Hopes to be sailing by the week's end were smashed when the gentle rain started again and the apoxy turned tacky, rather than hardening, and the Stan's spent hours scraping away the glue-like mess with grumbled curses about the terrible weather of the North East.  The second round, Ford made use of his interdimensional heat guns and sat back in a lawn chair, lazily sweeping small sections of the helm with blistering heat to harden up the sealants as Stan worked to organize their food inside the small cabin to make best use of space.

The man made Ford worry quietly to himself.  Stan had withdrawn emotionally at the first visage of the wrecked boat, had pulled back into himself, refusing to talk about it, barely registering the stupid jokes Ford made for his brother's sake.  And when Stan was silent, he was his most dangerous, his most self-loathed.  The only time Ford saw him crack a smile and come to life was when the younger twin's called to check up on them.

He'd learned on their Friday night call that Mabel had aced her math test, even if she was the last student left taking the exam, and that she couldn't be happier to have a smart Grunkle to help her out when the numbers jumbled together and she couldn't make sense of it.  He also learned - much to Stan's chagrin - that Dipper had taken the girl that had a crush on him to a movie, and it had gone extremely well, but he needed Stan's advice about women.  Ford had watched, heat gun in hand, as Stan perched on the bow of the boat with the phone in hand, face lit up like the stars as he gave the young boy some questionable advice, but he couldn't even think to correct his brother.  His heart felt lofty seeing the pure, unadulterated joy on his twin's face, and he'd privately correct Dipper in what a good gift was for a young lady, rather than ruin the moment. 

When Stan had said his nearly teary goodbyes to the young twins, and took over with the heat gun, Ford had stepped away and learned from a tired-looking Mabel that she was still having bad dreams.  But now they weren't just revolving around Dipper, now they encompassed the two older twins, and she was more afraid now, because she couldn't as easily check on her two Grunkles.  Ford felt for her; he knew how debilitating dreams could be, knew that sometimes they didn't stop hurting until you heard the victim's voice, saw their chest ride and fall with life.  With a sad smile he had just assured her, "Starshine, you can call, and text, and email at any hour of the day, and I guarantee one of us will answer.  Don't you ever think you're bothering us, we love to see that colorful smile of yours.  And don't worry about Stanley, I'm keeping an eye on him."

"But who's watching over you?" she had asked without a beat, a moment before Waddles had snuffled the phone from her hands and disconnected the call in his eagerness to say hi.

It was a question that rung through his head when they dropped the boat into the bay and anchored her for a twenty-four hour water test to see if their patch job had worked, and if there were any other spots that weren't water proofed.  Ford was use to taking care of himself, loneliness had become just another constant in his bitter life of survival.  There was no one to clean his wounds, to help build shelter, to hunt and scavenge and barter.  There was no one to guard his back against the assaults of the intergalactic federation and the shadier space police units.  And he was used to that, he was used to living inside his head, questioning his sanity, as every mild self destructive thought passed through.  It was almost odd that she'd even ask who would watch out for him.

But he had to remember that she'd grown up with a constant in her life, just like he had at her age.  Some days, he still woke thinking he was alone in some dark and twisted dimension, only to be startled by the yellowed grin of his brother.  But Stan was fragile, an emotional wreck that was hidden and guarded behind masks and excuses; Stan was struggling deeply and needed more support than Ford did.  He didn't need a shoulder to lean on; Stan did.  He could only hope that Stan would let down his chipped walls and let him in to help and work through whatever it was that was troubling his brother.

He was afraid of what would happen if Stan didn't.

...

The night air glittered coolly with flecks of stardust that washed across the vast span of space far above, a swift breeze whooshing by the  walls, howling eerily into the night.  The small shared room was awash in the glow of the television that talked numbly about infomercials and the white noise of Ford's rampant tapping on the keyboard as he clacked in a topic to research and scrawled out everything pertinent on the subject he could find on the parchment littering the small table.  It was a routine they had fallen into the last week; Ford, the quiet sentinel positioned between the beds and the only exit, feigning research for the real task of protecting his brother, even from himself, and Stan, curled into the comforters, letting the irritating key-tapping lull him into slumber.

He had learned, through his brother's coaxing, how to conform his mindscape to what he saw fit.  Some nights, he found himself in a heavenly glade, overlooking a deep blue spring that glinted with some inner radiance, tall willowy trees dancing to an internal rhythm.  At the roots of the trees, small decorated faerie doors lead to his memories, and high above, creatures he'd only seen in Ford's mythos books glided overhead.  It was a peaceful place when he needed to unwind, a place that played his favorite, most treasured memories like a reel inside his mind, a place that a dancing, spinning bright faced girl with braces seemed to dominate.

Sometimes, he found himself wandering down a quiet cove with rushing waves.  But instead of trees bordering the sandy planes, towering bookcases shuffled, the musty smell of old books poignant on the breeze.  Gas lanterns hung on cast-iron hooks that dotted the beach, casting a lazy, welcoming glow to the land awash in eternal sunset.  It was a thoughtful place he found himself internalizing, a place that a young boy with ink pens between his teeth seemed to wander by, pacing between the long bookcases, cap pulled low over his eyes.

Sometimes, Stan found himself in landscapes he knew nothing of, like tonight.  Tonight he clung dully to a rocky cliffside, narrow staircase with chains roping off quick drop into the unknown far below chiseled high into the rock.  But when he blinked, the landscape seemed to change, with staircases that defied gravity waltzing into the clouds, shifting and rebuilding at each passing second.  It reminded him of the black and white pictures in Ford's illusion books, using negative space to trick the eye. 

Too bad it made him dizzy, dizzy enough to lose his balance and fall, tumbling head over heels off his perch on the cliffside, down, down, down through a doorway suspended in mid air, only to be spit out...

He blinked, and found himself in the sweltering summer heat of evening , the smell of fried batter and popcorn lingering heavy in the air.  All around, childlike laughing tittered into the night as neon lights blinked on as the sun began to set on the Atlantic horizon, mixing melodiously with the sounds of mechanical games and carnies hocking their games at the customers walking by.  He dodged a candy-striped boy with missing front teeth, pulling behind a six-fingered nerd, and followed, being pulled along by an invisible string.

The Wonder Warf two towns over on the Jersey coast line was just another prominent memory of his childhood, a place his mother often took them on summer trips when Dad was out of town for business.  It was a place that kept two young boys entertained for hours for cheap, a place Stan had watched proudly as Ford popped glass bottles off standing pyramids with a toy gun and reaped in the winnings. 

But this particular memory darted between the games and food vendors, climbed aboard the rickety buckets of a ferris wheel, and Stan glowered as he watched the two boys be lifted to the sky, knowing where this was going a moment before he heard the scream.

"Come on, Stan," Ford had coaxed as Stan curled in on himself the higher the ferris wheel turned.  "There's nothing to be afraid of!  I promise."

"NO!" he'd barked, eyes shut tight against the world.

"I won't let anything happen to you, 'Lee," Ford said as his six fingers wrapped tightly around Stan's hand, giving a big squeeze of encouragement. 

When Stan had opened his reluctant eyes, they sprang wide with wonder, a huge smile playing on his face as he looked around the panoramic view, the sea seeming to extend forever, the cresting waves glittering in the falling sunlight, large sparkling stars twinkling in the coming night.  Their mother far below waved her banging hands at her boys, and Stan had laughed joyously.

"We'll explore all of this one day, 'Lee!" Ford had said cheerfully as he waved his hands over the ocean. 

"Promise, Ford?"

"Promise."

It was a promise his brother was finally keeping, years after the fact, Stan thought, rolling his eyes.  But later was better than never, he'd supposed.  A small smile played on his lips as he watched the boys, hand in hand, run off the ride toward another source of entertainment, something he found Ford still did, even in their adult hood.  It was a source of contact that grounded him, assured him, made everything real and true, and reminded him that his brother was back from the depths of interdimensional Hell and wasn't going anywhere.  With a breath, he took a step forward to follow the young twins and found himself crashing through the wooden planks of the warf, falling, falling...

Straight into another memory, this time as young teenagers in their shared bedroom, Ford on his belly in bed, head held up by a hand on his cheek as his eyes scanned over small, cramped words in some nerd book, Stan pacing the room nervously, hands making a circle, smoothing back his gelled hair, smooth down the bright white shirt over his abdomen, smoothing over the letterman jacket, over and over and he paced. 

"You're acting like this is the first time you've been out with Carla," Ford said nonchalantly, turning another page, not even looking up as Stan turned on his heels in a tight circle.

"It's our first _real_ date," he spat, as he posed in front of the mirror mounted on the inside of their closet, and quickly turned to Ford.  "Are the red converse too much?  Should I go black instead?"

"I think you need to breathe," Ford said as he dogeared the page he was on and sat up, looking his brother over seriously.  "If she liked you sweating and covered in sawdust, she'll like you with red or black shoes."

"You just don't understand," Stan said miserably, shoulders slumped.  "She makes me happy, Ford, like Pop Rocks going off in my stomach every time she smiles at me.  I just want tonight to be _perfect_.  I want to be perfect for her."

Stan watched his brother pop his hand thoughtfully to his chin.  "If you want _perfect_ , get rid of the jacket and replace it with your leather one; what, you're going for greaser, right?"  Stan immediately pulled off his high school jacket and popped on the leather one, a toothy grin lighting up his face questioningly.  Ford walked over, six fingers going to his hair, roughly messing up the perfect gelled-back look, styling his brown curls with loose tendrils falling across his forehead, and nodded.  "There, that looks better."

"You think she'll like it?" Stan asked nervously.

"I'm sure she will," Ford replied, the patience of a god evident in his eyes.  "What're you planning on doing, anyway?"  Stan recanted his plan of dinner at the Juke Hop, and a drive in movie.  Ford looked at him questioningly.  "You have enough money for all of that?"

The curse that rolled off Stan's tongue was answer enough as panic filled his eyes.  He'd been working at the hardware store over the summer, but had responsibly been giving his money to their mother to put into savings for him, leaving him just a small amount of play money from his earnings.  But Ford had already extended out a ten dollar bill in Stan's panic as an offering.

"You've been doing so well with your grades and saving your money, go out and have a good time, Stanley.  You deserve it."

Stan had thrown himself into his brother's arms, thanks spilling from his lips.  Ford wasn't such a bad brother; he'd always been the wiser of the two, with forethought into the future, always had the insight enough to think ahead, not only for himself, but for Stanley as well.  He acted years older, rather than just a few minutes, and sometimes that was an advantage.

But, the scene faded and changed, warping to months later, Ford exasperated, hands clutched to his side, brows furrowed, irritation evident as Stan pulled on his sneakers without looking at his brother.  At their desk sat a puzzle box pulled open, waiting to be put together.

"You're going out again, Stan?  I thought you were going to help put the 3d puzzle together," Ford said, voice betraying the annoyance. 

"You and I can do that anytime," Stan said offhandedly, ignoring his brother as he rolled the sleeves of his shirt up.  "I get a lifetime with you, y'know."  If only that had been true, Stan thought darkly as he watched his teenage self ignore Ford.  He'd give just about anything to go back in time and put that damn puzzle together with his brother, rather than watch how this particular memory played out.

"I just thought it'd be nice, since we've been so busy lately," Ford started, hands curling and uncurling around each other.

"Yeah, well, not tonight, Sixer.  I made other plans."

"But I thought--"

"Not tonight," Stan snapped, glaring at Ford.  "It's not my fault the girls don't like you, and I'm not fixin' to sit around the house and put a damn puzzle together when I could be out having fun, okay?  Get over it already."

"Okay, fine, have fun then," Ford had snapped back, and Stan could have strangled himself as he watched Ford spin in the chair, fists curls, head hung low in anger as his teenaged self finished getting ready and walked out without another word.  There were times he was unrightfully awful to Ford, whom had the patience of a saint, times he was downright mean, and yet, his twin always found the best in him, was always there when things went bad, always cared despite it all.

But when the scene changed once more, Stan found himself in the bedroom with Ford during one of his darkest memories, heart ripping in two, breath suffocating as he watched his teenage self reach a hand toward the window, pleading.  Watched as Ford turned away, a shaking hand drawing the curtains shut, heard the tires squeal on the pavement as he tore off in anger, but the scene didn't fade, and he was let on the other side of the memory, left on a side he had never seen.  His mind tried to comprehend the _how_ , but was silenced as Ford let out an angry howl and sent everything on the desk flying, books scattering with a thud, papers cutting through the air, pens and pencils clattering to the hardwood.  The medals and trophies from years of academic accomplishments went next, slamming down into a pile in the trash can by the desk.  Posters carefully tacked in precision to the neutral walls were ripped down and torn to shreds, and finally Ford grabbed a picture of the twins from the nightstand, arms thrown around each other, but he didn't destroy it.  Instead, he fell onto the bed, clutching the picture as tears poured down his face.

"You fucking idiot, you stupid, stupid idiot, Stan, what am I supposed to do without you, what am I going to do?" Ford had sobbed, hugging the picture tight.  As Stan made a motion to comfort his twin in the memory, he found himself frozen, unable to move.

"What the," he breathed as Ford aged instantly to twenty-something man crouched with his back to a wall in the Mystery Shack, hands over his head as tears fell and a golden triangle stared intently at the spot Stan was standing.

"You don't need him, you don't need anyone," Bill purred into his brother's ear, still staring keenly at Stan.  "Everyone will hold you down, no one understands your genius, the good you are doing for the world.  They will try to keep you down, hold you back from reaching your true potential, the potential to change the world!  You know that, Stanford Pines, you know that better than most."

"Leave my brother alone," Stan growled, fist clenched, straining against the invisible hand that held him fast. 

"You, alone, will be this dimension's saviour!  You, alone, will be a god among men of the intellect you bring this world.  You, alone, are my greatest treasure, Stanford!  My greatest friend, indeed!"

"Shut your fucking mouth," Stan hissed as the demon cackled, circling his brother's head.

"And I am yours, aren't I, Stanford?  I am all you need in this world, I, alone, will bring you greatness.  I, alone, will nurture your need for academia, I, alone, will help answer the most annoying questions of the worlds anomalies you so desire.  We are a team, you and I, Stanford, a team no one else could compete with," Bill whispered lullingly, tantalizing as Ford pulled his curls, knuckles white, tears still streaming 

"Leave him _alone_!" Stan howled as Bill laughed, Ford fading into the background as Stan was pulled down to his knees by the invisible force, and the demon perched loftly in the air, knees crossed as he stared down.

"And what could you possibly do to change the world?" Bill hissed.  "What could you possibly do to change the fate that Sixer faced, and continues to face?  What could a low-life piece of garbage like you do, Stanley Pines?"

"I destroyed you once, and I'll do it again," Stan said, hate venomous in his voice as he spat in the direction of the demon.

"Did you, though?" the triangle questioned.  "Am I a distant nightmare, or something _more_?" Bill crooned.

"I erased you out of existence," Stan replied, unsure of himself as the triangle sat staring at him. 

"Oh, just like your memories?  _These_ memories  Cute, isn't it?  You'll never really know though, will you, Fez?  Just like your brother...you'll never really know him, huh?"

At those words a film reel of pictures floated around them.  Ford shaking hands with the demon, blue flames illuminating them both.  Ford parked at a desk with glowing yellow eyes, tittering laughter echoing in the otherwise silent study.  Ford eating sleeping pills like candy just to get to that place that Bill waited in his dreamscape.  Ford, using a tiny pen-knife to carve little triangles into his palms, eyes aglow in gold as bloodied palms left a trail on the wallpaper.  Ford, standing before an almost completed portal with a devilish smile on his face, a smile that promised violence.

"No," Stan breathed, shaking his head as the images snapped off and Bill laughed. 

"There's a lot you don't know, Fez," the demon said omniously.  "A lot you could never know.  A lot I'm willing to bet you'll forget."  At that, Bill snapped his claws  and crimson flames surrounded them both in a circle, the scarlet glow oddly chilling.  Stan struggled uselessly, muscles aching to break the invisible chains that held him prone, executioners style, as panic began to march steadily up his throat.  But as the flames neared, they weren't hot, rather, they burned with such cold Stan thought his skin would freeze and crack. 

"Do you know what it's like to burn, Stanley?  To burn against your will?  Because you're going to find out."

...

Stan woke, jackknifing upward, fingers clawing at his throat, feeling like he was choking on smoke, choking as his wind pipe froze together as the icy hot flames washed over him.  Sweat slid in a chilled tackiness down his neck, ears rang at the deep thudding of his heart, pulse jumping nearly out of his skin.  He jerked away from fire that landed on his shoulder, the image of deep red flames and ringing, insane laughter still in his head.

"Stanley, Stan, it's okay, it's alright, just breathe," he heard barely over his own labored breathing.  It took a moment to let his eyes focus, to see the concerned look on his brother's face, the outstretched hand that a moment before had been on his shoulder. 

He could only manage a nod, voice frozen behind the panic.  He flinched when Ford's hands gingerly lead his own to his chest and held them fast there but didn't argue.

"Come on, Stan, you've got to calm down.  Just focus on the rise and fall of my breathing, okay?  Focus," Ford said, and Stan nodded again, closing his eyes and turning off his brain, timing his breathing to the steadiness of his brother's.  The sick feeling that had crept up in his stomach seemed to fade, the lightheadedness receded, the tightness of his throat eased, and even his heart seemed to slow in steady time with Ford's.

"Thanks," he croaked out weakly, and Ford was there with a glass of water for his dried mouth.  He drank gingerly, not trusting his gut not to revolt and toss it back up.  "I wish I could remember."

He saw the alarm in Ford's eyes, and cursed himself for the wording.  "Do you remember who you are?  Who I am?"

"Yes, Sixer, I remember everything _but_ why I woke up like that," he said with a barking laugh, shaking his head, staring down at his palms.  Palms...he knew there was something important there, could feel it like a lingering tendril in his mind, he just couldn't figure out why.  Even looking at his brother now, he felt like he was missing something; did he have another nightmare of Ford being gone, sucked into some dimension he didn't know a damn thing about like usual?  He didn't know, and not knowing irritated him.

"Did I wake you up?" Stan asked, catching the guilty look as Ford shrugged.

"Not particularly."

A survey of the analog clock showed it was just after 2 am.  "You haven't slept yet, have you?"

Another shrug.  "I'm use to getting limited sleep, Stanley.  That's the least you should worry about."  But the dark, bruised circles under his brother's eyes told otherwise, and with a sigh, Stan plucked Ford's glasses off his face.

"You need to sleep, Poindexter.  Mabel will kill us both if you don't."

"Stanley, I--" his twin started to protest as Stan pushed him into the pillows face-first to prevent any more arguing.  Ford pushed himself up to his elbows, tongue ready to fight, but paused at seeing Stan sitting on the side of the bed, eyes downcast, a thread of fright on his face.

"I don't know what freaked me out, but I know it had something to do with you, and I _need_ to know you're okay, and being exhausted 24/7 is not 'okay'.  Just do this for me," Stan said, almost pleading.  He hated being weak, hated giving his twin this advantage, but truth was, he ached for the contact his brother offered that grounded his fragile mind.

Ford settled into the pillows without another word, looking at Stan expectedly.  With a sigh, Stan settled back under the covers and popped the bedside light off, laying on his back and staring up at the popcorned ceiling.  His mind whirled, the tittering, maniacal laughter he'd woken to creeping back in, chilling him.  He was fixing to get up, go smoke, do anything to fight the silence a moment before Ford's head hit his shoulder, and the tension he didn't realize he'd been holding eased from his aching muscles. He didn't realize how tired he was, emotionally exhausted from the unknown nightmare, until that comforting weight settled against his shoulder, Ford's warmth soaking in, nearly lulling him under.

"Go to sleep, Stanley.  I'll be right here in the morning, Knucklehead."

...

The morning came quicker than Ford had hoped, bright dawn light filtering through the thin curtains, the sound of birdsong welcoming over the jackhammering snoring of his brother.  The quiet coastal town seemed to be buzzing with activity outside the musty little motel room, an excited dog barking as cars drove by up and down the street.  Ford watched the clock agonizingly for an hour, until at 8:26 he'd had enough and expertly pushed Stanley right out of bed into a cursing heap on the floor. 

"I'm so sorry, these crazy limbs, they just have a mind of their own," Ford had said as Stan glared daggers at him and he climbed from bed himself, excitedly pacing around the room in his morning routine.  "But now that you're awake, we had better go check to make sure the ship didn't take on water overnight!"

"You're going to be the one taking on water when I tie ya to a concrete block and sink you," Stan grumbled in reply as Ford had buzzed by towel drying his hair roughly from the quick shower he'd taken while Stan still floundered on the floor irritably.

Ford knew the extra forty-five minutes Stan took to get ready that morning was payback, found that at each irritated noise he made, his brother just seemed to get slower.  Even as he stood by the door, shifting from foot to foot like an excited puppy, Stan took his sweet time combing his hair into perfection.  Until Ford had grabbed him by the wrists and drug him out the door, ignoring the bitter protests as he hurried toward the docks.

The boat looked even more majestic sitting in the calm surf with the morning light setting the mast ablaze than it did in the hanger they'd spent countless hours working.  Without a thought Ford jumped nimbly to the deck, ignoring Stan's groans as he took the safer route down the ladder from the dock, and went about popping open the hatch to the lower deck that they were planning on using for storage, if the _Stan'O'War II_ had proven herself and wasn't holding any water.

Ford slid through the hatch, thumbing on a flashlight that appeared from a pocket of his coat as he wandered to the helm they had spent days fixing, fingers brushing over the sealed wood gently, and glanced about the belly of the boat.  Other than the moisture he'd expected from the closed-off storage area that clung to the side walls like a sheen of sweat, he found no standing water.  Now, the real test would be how the boat handled the crashing surf on the open water, which is why they had planned an easy trip up to Maine, just to make sure she didn't take on any water, and if she did, they were within easy reach of the coast guard for assistance.

"And?" Stan asked as his face clouded the small entry way above, and Ford turned, beaming.

"Dry as a bone.  We did well.  I expect we'll be able to set sail in a day or so!" Ford preened excitedly as he took Stan's offered hand and let himself be pulled up onto deck.  "We'll just have to finish packing up, and put our wares into storage now that we know nothing will be water-logged down there.  And I suspect we should sleep a night or two on the boat prior to setting sail, just to be use to the movement."

Stan rolled his eyes as Ford babbled on, flying over the ship, checking on the systems, taking stock of their dried and canned goods, making mental check lists of supplies.  He didn't even care that Stan sat with his feet propped up, eyes closed, soaking in the morning sun as he worked; he was comforted in the fact Stan was there with him, sharing these tedious stages of the dream they had shared since they were kids.

Soon enough, Stan was snoring, mouth wide open as Ford bustled about.  And he didn't mind; rather than wake his snoozing brother, he popped a fisherman's hat over Stan's face to avoid the late morning's harsh sun.  He made several trips to the hanger and back with supplies to tuck into the storage area, made a new mental list as he stocked the inside pantries with even numbers of food, made sure they had a well-stocked first aid kit, candles, matches, kindling, lantern oil, a fire extinguisher....the list went on and on as he combed the small cabin they would live in, making sure they had the rudimentary supplies they'd need.  Sure, Ford had lived without a lot when he dimension hopped, and sure, he knew how to rig together most things o survive, but with supplies handy and easy to acquire, he was going to take advantage of that.

It was nearly one in the afternoon when he packed on a chest of warm clothes and sweaters Mabel had furiously knit for them, called it quits as his stomach growled loudly, and locked up the cabin.  He kicked Stan in the heel of his propped boots, smiling as Stan flew upward, a dried line of drool on his face as he looked around skittishly.

"What?  I wasn't sleepin'.  I dunno what you're talking about," he growled with a yawn as Ford rolled his eyes.

"I didn't say you were, but I think it's time we get something to eat, don't you?"

Stan's rumbling stomach was answer enough as he stretched, a huge yawn betraying him.  Together they wandered down the docks toward the coastal street stretch, Stan yapping on and on about the bikini babes they were bound to encounter on their adventures, Ford only half listening as they placed an order at a food truck and dug in.  He wasn't about to shatter Stan's dreams of bikini-clad women on an _arctic_ adventure as he scooped up cheese from the sides of the little cardboard carton with a fry, licking the salt from his fingers as Stan pulled his burger away from Ford's capable hands. 

Tossing his garbage into a receptacle, Ford began the trek down the street, Stan following, still eating.  "We've still got a few things to pick up for the trip.  We also need to do our laundry and pack up the room so we can move onto the ship tonight," he said, ticking off each item on a finger, Stan nodding with his mouth full behind.  "And we're going to need to fill the ice box just enough to get to our first destination."

They went about their tasks, stopping by various stores to pick up the items on Ford's extensive list.  When Stan I-can-carry-all-the-bags arm's were full, Ford pulled a tiny wagon from his coat pocket, flipped on the crystal light, and enlarged it into a fully functioning buggy that, mumbling swears, Stan deposited their survival gear into.  As always, passing by a tiny antique store, Ford found himself wandering in, passing through the shelves, eyes scanning for knick knacks they may be able to use on the ship.  It took a little work, but he found a working barometer, some heavy tin mugs with characteristic dents that may prove better than ceramic on the ship for their coffee, and a hand-crank can opener that would be invaluable.  Ford paid for his treasures and placed them in the cart Stan was pulling with a wide smile, excited that their trip was so close.

As they wandered back to the dock, he barely heard Stan as he said, "Hey, uh, Ford?"

But he was in his own world, imagining the things they'd see, the places they go, as she stepped right through the backwash of another sailor pressuring washing the hull of his boat, being smacked with brisk, chilly water that soaked him to the bone.

"I tried to warn ya," Stan said, fighting back a laugh as Ford looked down at himself, sopping wet and cold, usual gravity-defying hair a wet mess of curls clinging to his face.

"I hate you," Ford choked out as he waddled toward their boat, the water dripping down his pants disconcerning.

"We've got clothes on the boat, nerd, you can just get changed," Stan bargained as they slid down to the deck, the wagon carried between them.  He kicked off his boats, deposited his coat to dry across the steering wheel, and ducked inside, grumbling.

He pulled on a new pair of pants from their carefully packed chests of clothes, peeled off his sopping sweater with a quick glance to make sure Stan wasn't around - he still wasn't entirely comfortable letting anyone see the multitudes of pock marks and scars drizzling down his torso - and began to dig through for a new sweater, when he heard a sharp intake of breath behind him.

"I...I remember now," Stan said, voice turning cold.  Ford turned, looking over his shoulder at his brother's shocked face, a finger pointing accusingly to his left shoulder blade where a crude geometric tattoo sat in an alchemy circle.  "You were his fucking toy," Stan spat.

Ford fought the urge to run his fingers over the tattoo he hated as he pulled on a sweater with a cat floating in space, covering any existence of it.  "I was tricked for years by Bill, you knew that," Ford started carefully.  "I told you everything I had told Dipper."

"You didn't tell a twelve-year-old boy everything," Stan spat dangerously, eyes aflame in anger as he roughly grabbed Ford's hands, turning them over, staring at his palms.  Between the lines that criss-crossed, deep and cutting from time, were tiny triangles that had been cut there years prior.  "What the fuck is this, Ford?  What were you and Bill, really?  Because in my dream, you and him sure looked cozy."

He pulled his hands away, held them tight to his chest, concern flitting on his face.  No one, not even Fiddleford, had known of his reckless self-harm brought on by coos of Bill promising a life of intellectual help for a little blood-letting.  It was a memory he thought he only shared with Bill.

"I thought he was a friend," Ford started, keeping a careful eye on his brother.  "A muse of sorts, for the intellectual people of the decade.  There were examples through history of the assistance he'd given man; I should have known then that he was bad news, since every society, every civilization he'd helped with his guiding had crumbled and ceased to exist in our modern world.  But I was at a loss in my studies, and I wanted to help the world.  I was a fool.

"He was innocent enough, in the beginning.  Coming to my dreams with equations and kinks in formulas that would vastly improve my research.  But that's the only time I found myself relating to this genius, in my dreams.  My dependence became unhealthy, and for a researcher that had a hard time getting any sleep, I abused prescription drugs and alcohol to get to the point that I could, finally, sleep. 

"Bill made a suggestion, that he could come to the physical plane and assist if I made a deal and allowed him to share my body.  I was beyond ecstatic.  Now, I wouldn't have to forfeit time to sleep to communicate with Bill, we could work together for a greater good of the world.  Or, that's what I had thought would be the idea.  Request became more self imposed.  I needed to mark myself with a summoning circle, because Bill had said it was hard to maintain himself in our dimension without one.  I needed to prove my loyalty to him, that he wasn't wasting his time on me, by marking myself with his symbol."  Ford looked down at his palms, the faded scars of the triangles that he'd carved there, and shook his head.

"You were infatuated with him," Stan said, accusing, refusing to look at his brother.  "The windows in the Shack, all triangles.  The rug in the gift shop, the beam patterns on the roof, the prisms, everything!  You had a crush on him."

Ford glowered.  "I most certainly did _not_."

Stan shot him a look.  "You fell into his lines easy enough because he cooed and coddled and told you you were the best genius in the whole wide world, right?  You lived in the same room with a liar, with a conman for seventeen years, and you got conned.  All because he fed into that massive ego of yours."

"When you're defective, when you're told over and over throughout your life you're a freak, it's amazingly nice to be told otherwise," Ford shot back, pinching the bridge of his nose and he took a deep breath, letting the irritation out in waves.  "By the time I saw through the bullshit and realized Bill's true purpose, it was too late.  I shut down the portal, and he didn't take it well.  He couldn't truly exist in our dimension, but he made sure to exist through me.  Sometimes, he'd take hours away, sometimes, I'd wake up days later, bruised, hurt, bloodied.  I never knew what he did those times he took over, never really wanted to know.

"I found out that Bill couldn't control me, when I was barely in control myself.  It was at this point I drank, a lot.  I came into possession of opiate prescriptions, and those clouded my mind as well.  It was during this time I realized that if the portal held Bill in his dimension, maybe there was some property in the materials I used.  I fabricated a piece of scrap metal, sterilized it, and used my limited knowledge of skull procedures to install the plate."

At that, he knocked on his head, the metal underneath tinking at the contact as he stared at the ground, rather than the horrified look his brother stared at him with.  "The pain of flapping back my scalp, or even drilling the metal into place in my skull didn't hurt nearly as much as Bill's screeching threats that went on and on until everything was stitched back into its rightful place, and I was finally able to pass out in silence.  When I came to, my head throbbed, there was blood everywhere, but Bill's voice was gone.  He was finally gone, and I was able to form thoughts on my own, complete my own actions without feeling like someone else was pulling my strings.

"It was lonely, though.  I thought I'd go insane from the silence itself; after having shared everything for several years, it was incredibly desolate to be my own person.  Fiddleford by that point was long gone, having founded the Society of the Blind Eye to forget.  It was at this point I called you to come," he said, looking up, meeting Stan's eyes.  "You know what happened after that."

"How many of those scars are self-inflicted?" Stan asked after a beat, staring at him seriously.

Ford shrugged, fighting the urge to run his hands over the marks covering his arms.  "More than there should be, I'm sure," he said finally. 

"And you call me self-destructive," Stan said, thumbing at the bandage on his wrist that covered the jagged line he'd cut into himself. 

"You are," Ford replied, crossing his arms.  "I was, that's the difference.  I learned to live past the terrible years in my late-twenties, had thirty years to cope with the kind of idiot I was, but you're still that teenage boy clinging to the railing of the pier emotionally.  You haven't gotten past the traumas of your life, that stunted your emotional growth, and that's okay, it just means I have to worry a little harder for you."

"I'm not stunted," Stan growled, and Ford pursed his lips, unwilling to argue at this point.   But the truth was, despite everything he'd done, Stan didn't value himself.  He still thought he was a crook, a lowlife first and foremost, a fuckup second; the reason Ford had been pushed through the portal and lost for thirty-someodd years.  Despite the fact he'd thought himself advanced mathematics, physics, chemistry, taught himself ciphers and cryptograms, despite the fact he'd made a life, a business for himself, despite the fact he'd save the world through a terrifying sacrifice, Stan still thought of himself as worse than the gum on your shoe. 

It was that sacrifice that was now beginning to worry Ford.  He had assumed Bill would be erased like Stan's memory, but when his brother began to pull those memories back against all odds, he'd had to consider the thought that maybe Bill still lurked somewhere.  When Stan had snapped, blaming him for the showdown during Weirdmagedon, Ford had immediately come to the thought that Bill was the backwards influence, and now he was nearly sure of it.  There was no other way Stan could have known about the triangles in his palms unless he was sharing memories with Bill.

Finally, he looked up at his brother, a frown turning the corners of his mouth downward.  "I think we need to consider the possibility that some part of Bill is left in you, Stanley."

His brother gave a curt nod, eyes flashing momentarily with fright, and Ford knew he was thinking about being erased again.  "What's that mean for us?"

He shook his head, honesty falling from his tongue.  "I'm not sure yet."

...

The rest of the evening was spent packing up their shared motel room and sitting in comfortable silence in a laundromat, the whirl of the machines the white noise they needed.  Ford picked up some  antinausea serum and anti-vertigo medicine on the way to the ship they'd be calling home from now 'til they docked again after their adventures, unsure how his landlocked brother would do on the shifting sea.  They coasted a few hundred feet out and anchored, the town and pier still within easy view, but to mimic the roiling waves a little more closely to what it'd be on the open sea.

They moved in rhythm in the close quarters of the cabin, putting away the lasts of their belongings, tucking away clothing in the storage under the bed, tucking supplies in the storage bench at the small table that was already littered with scrawling books and nautical maps, bright red ink tracking the path that Ford had laid out for them to the tip of Maine. 

When night finally fell, the stars awash overhead, Stan was the first to queazily wander to the back of the cabin where their beds were located and lay, green around the gills despite the medicine Ford had force fed him, and covered up with a thick quilt as he held his head, groaning.  Ford almost felt bad for his brother at how poorly he was taking the quiet little surf of the channel, and questioned how useful Stan would be on the ocean's expanse.  It was almost an hour after Stan had first wandered to the little bedroom that Ford heard his even snores, and took some comfort in the fact he'd finally let the waves lull him to slumber. 

He stayed up at the table, researching the next few days' weather patterns, making slight alterations to his map.  He barely noticed his eyes fluttering quickly shut as his head fell heavy to his arms, Stan's snoring pulling him to sleep.  He only realized he was asleep when he found himself sitting in an old wooden school desk of his childhood, a chalk board covered in dust taking up the expanse of the front room, moaning copper gas lines overhead, large unscreened windows to the left filtering in the afternoon light that had been the main source of light for the elementary classrooms until flourescence had been installed.  He reveled in the dusty smell of chalk residue, of old yellowed papers and the hint of nicotine that lingered from a time teachers smoked during lessons.  He felt lost in the memories that held thick on the back of the tongue, until the old metal door banged open and soft footsteps broke him from the thoughts of running between the desks with a boy so much like himself, of fawning in wonder at the spinning globes and replica solar systems.

His heart stilled seeing Stan standing at the teacher's desk, a ruler in hand, eerie, angular smile pulling the corners of his lips upward.  His lens' flashed, and those otherwise bright, caramel eyes turned gold.  Ford tasted his heart in his throat.

"Get out of my brother," he hissed.  "You don't belong here."

"But isn't that the precious thing, Sixer?  _You_ keep dreaming about _me_.  What's that say about your mentality?" the amused voice of Bill spilled from his brother's lips. 

"Stop invading my dreams and there wouldn't be an issue."

Cocking a hip against the desk, he smiled.  "But how can _I_ be the one in charge here, when you so adequately erased me?" he asked, banging together two black-board erasers and disappearing into the cloud of white dust.  Ford panicked, glanced back and forth as his heart hammered in his ears, looking for the visage of his brother.  One moment,  no one but he were there, the next, Stan slid into view before him.

"No, Stanford, you always have been your own author, everything here in your mindscape is your own bidding.  So what's that say about you, IQ?  That you're still so desperate for a friend, for validation, that you still insist I be here.  Hmm..."

Ford glowered, looking away from those glowing golden orbs that seemed to penetrate the depths of his very self.  "You're wrong," he growled, fist curling.

"Am I?" he said mockingly, perching on midair with a cackle.  "You know what is wrong, Sixer?  You have convinced yourself that it would be better if you hadn't have defeated me, that I'm somewhere lurking in this," Bill said, gesturing to the body of Stan that he inhabited.  "Rather than just admit that Stanley is fucked up.  It is better, for you, to think that my nefarious doings are behind your own brother's actions.  But you know better than that, don't you, IQ?"

At those words, the lights dimmed and the images played like static on an old projector.  Stan, clinging to the water-logged boards of the old pier with desperation on his face.  Stan, face enraptured in joy a moment before being crushed when told he needed to leave and go, far, far away.  Stan, a look of relief on his wrinkled face as blood dribbled down the mawwing self-inflicted wound at his wrist. 

"You're a terrible brother," Bill hissed with finality.  "Is this sailing trip really for Stanley, like you insist, or because you've been wandering for 30 years, and staying at that Shack was stifling?"

"You're wrong," Ford said softly, hands shaking for an entirely different reason as he swallowed, hard.  "The Shack _was_ stifling, sure - because some of my absolute worst years were spent there, because at every corner turned was another memory of _you_ and the guilt of almost destroying the dimension was something I couldn't hide from.  But this trip is to give Stan everything I couldn't as a conceited young man, and I won't let you impregnate that with self-doubt."

A grin, pulled back from slightly yellowed teeth was the answer.  "Remember, IQ, I'm nothing _but_ your fascinating self-loathing and doubt.  I no longer exist in this plane, all thanks to you," Bill said, hand held up like a gun to the head of Stan as he winked, shooting himself in the head.  "A man that spent half his life finding a way to defeat me wouldn't make a mistake....right?"

Ford's head fell into his hands, a headache blossoming behind his eyes.  No, of course he wouldn't have made a mistake, Bill couldn't possibly still be lingering in the depths of Stan's mind, and that fact cut like ribbons.  If that was true, then all of Stan's bizarre behaviour, all of Stan's self-destructive thoughts, were his own.  And it was something Ford should have known from the get-go; his brother had always teetered on the delicate edge of destruction, also battled like the storm of depression, so why had he assumed that now it was all Bill's wicked doing from within? 

"Because you've always wanted Stan to be happy, and you had figured stepping through the Portal would have been the kick Stan needed to be happy.  What you forget, Sixer, is you're just a lighthouse in the storm of depression, but are you guiding the boat to safety, or to peril?"

...

A bang had Ford's heart hammering in his throat as he jacknifed upward, scrambling the looseleaf pages of paper in his abrupt wakefulness.  The feeling of guilt, of dread, of edginess still coiled his aching muscles as adreneline filled him as he looked around for the source of noise.  What he found was no sign of his brother in the cozy little cabin, and he tore up to the deck, the tendrils of his dream pulling at the edges of his mind as the chilled night air slapped him in the face.

"What the," He heard Stan say before he saw him standing at the railing, a cigarette lit between his lips, a tiny red beacon in the inky blackness dotted with dazzling flecks of glitter in the sky.

"You were gone," Ford breathed, the tension easing just a little.  "And I heard a bang."

"Because you left a fudgin' bucket just layin' around and I nearly tripped," Stan growled.  "And my stomach didn't feel good.  I needed some air.  Jeez..."

"You should have woken me up," Ford said almost chidingly, and Stan snorted.

"Wake up the man that doesn't sleep?  Yeah, right.  You're hilarious, Ford," his brother said with a chuckle and he blew smoke into the crisp air, the wisps curling upward, dancing in the slight seaside breeze.  He shuddered as the ember on Stan's lips glowed as he inhaled the tobacco, the glow reminding him of the flash of Bill's angry red eye.

"Do I make you worse?" Ford asked, not missing a beat as Stan turned to him with the question on his face.  "Is being around me screwing you up?"

"What are you even talking about?" Stan asked uneasily. 

"You weren't destructive with the kids," Ford hissed like it was obvious. "But I come along, and you begin to fall down that rabbit hole, again, Stanley.  It has to be _me_ then, right?  I have to be the part of the equation that I've been missing.  I--"

"Stop," Stan barked, a thread of anger pausing his brother in place.  "Why'sit always gotta be about you, Ford?  Why can't it ever just be my problem?"

"Because I'm terrible to you!" Ford growled, pushing Stan back by the shoulders.  "Because I deserve nothing but to be hated for everything."

Shaking his head, Stan dropped the butt of his cigarette into the swirling water below.  "I don't know what the Hell has gotten into you, but you need to get it together." He tried to move past his twin, but Ford just pushed him back with his rough hands.  "Damnit, Ford, you're pissing me off."

"Hit me, then," Ford said, face serious, hands curled into fists that shook.  "Hit me for all the times I took the glory, for all the times you were overlooked, for all the times I was a bad brother."

"If you were a bad brother, I wouldn't have spent half my life trying to get you back!" Stan growled coolly.  "Now get out of my way, old man."

"Not until you hit me," Ford said, shoving Stan back as he tried to step back into the cabin. 

"I'm not hitting you.  Stop being crazy," Stan said, taking those few steps forward, only to be shoved harder.  This time he stumbled and fell back into the railing, a curse falling from his lips as anger flared at the pain that shot through his banged elbow.  "Fine," he growled as he got his bearings about him, fist curling.  "Fine!"

It all happened within moments; Stan's lens' flashed gold, and Ford's heart stilled, the uneasy feeling he'd been trying to ignore blazing, the tendrils of the dream wrapping him up, and it wasn't his brother in front of him, but Bill.  Bill, with his angular smile, Bill with his flashing gold eyes, Bill with his chiding cackle. 

It was instinct that drew the gun from his hip, that flipped the knob to stun as the demon in his brother's body advanced a step.  It was instinct that hit the trigger with one hand, that shielded his eyes from the bright light emitted from the barrel with the other.

But it was fear he saw in his brother's caramel eyes, not the golden orbs he'd expected, it was dissolving trust and disbelief he saw a moment before he watched his brother stumble back, hand reaching out.  It was the panic stricken look of his teenage twin he saw, the haunted, rainsoaked face with loose curls plastered to his forehead he watched disappear over the railing of the boat and fall, fall into the swirling, mawwing ocean and sink into the unforgiving surf. 

There was a moment of silence after the water settled from the disturbance, a moment as fear bubbled up and spilled from Ford's throat as his fingers lost feeling and the stun-gun fell to the deck, a moment as he darted forward and surveyed the undisturbed water, a moment as he screamed:

" _Stanley!"_

 


	5. Emptiness as Unreal as midnight Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With this chapter, we are caught up with the publication on ff.net. Triggers include strong emotional issues hampered with Ford's fun-filled magic times. Next chapter, Bill becomes a lead player in the events to come.

_"Stanley!"_

Panic was a feeling he was growing accustomed to.

It slid like ice through his veins as he stared over the railing of the boat into the unmoving water below, crisp and deep, barely reflecting the glittering constellations that glared down from above.  The dark ominous water below glinted untouched like a freshly frozen lake, winking at the  impossibility of it all.  But his heart hammered in his throat, choking back the name that spilled from his cracked lips as his deep caramel eyes scanned the glassy waters.  Despite the chill from the early morning ocean air, sweat seemed to pool between his shoulders as the terror set in, clawing at his insides, lighting him on fire from within.

"Focus!" he hissed to himself, shaking hands working at the buttons on his coat, eyes still scanning the unmarred waters.  The panic was making him clumsy, he realized, as he fought desperately with his coat, tears springing into his eyes in frustration, feeling helpless.  Time wasn't something he could afford, not with Stanley stunned  and sinking fast.

"Fool," he growled to himself, as he took a breath to steady himself and popped the last button as he worked to kick off the heavy combat boots he wore; he didn't need any extra weight in the waters.  How could he let himself be tied up in the tendrils of illusion so much that he had shot his brother?  How could he have been so easily manipulated by his mind to see that damn dream demon in his lofty twin?  How did he have the gall to drawn down on Stan and pull the trigger?  Because he was a stupid fool, that's how.  And now his brother was taking on water, and fast, because he let himself be spooked, let the survival instinct kick in, let the killer he was peak through for a moment.

 _But you had the sense to turn the gun to stun mode_ , his brain reminded him as he shed his thick sweater and threw it to the floorboards.  _You had the sense to realize that it was Stan after all, and not aim to kill_.  But it didn't matter either way; Stan was a sinking rock treading water because of him.  Because of him, his brother may have an anoxic brain injury, or worse.  Because of him, his twin may be dead.

And if Stan died, Ford could guarantee that he would follow suit.

He had his shaking hands on the rail, ready to jump in after, when heat landed heavy on his shoulder, startling him.  He nearly lost his balance when short nails pricked into his skin, holding steadfast as he caught his footing and looked back, his brothers concerned face staring at him.

"What the fuck are you doing, Ford?!"

"I," was all he could manage as he stared into Stan's terrified eyes.  But that didn't make sense.  He gazed back to the unmarred water, searching for the image of his brother, the brother holding him by the shoulders a little too tightly.  Slowly he shook his head as his brows furrowed.  "I don't know."

"Clearly," Stan snarled, pulled him roughly away from the boat's slippery edge and shoving the thick woolen sweater into his shaking hands.  "And here I thought I was supposed to be the emotionally damaged one."

"I wasn't trying to kill myself," he argued weakly, gaze caught on the water.  Glassy, untouched; not the water of a person falling into, not the water that he had seen swallow his brother up.  And he had seen that...right?  The image was clear in his mind; Stan, caught in the blue glow of the stun gun, hand outstretched, pleading as he tumbled over the railing.  The look of a broken man caught in the crossfire, the immediate lurch of guilt that had nearly turned Ford's stomach as the panic set hold.

And, while the panic had subsided, he still felt tense, still couldn't control the rapid pounding of his pulse in his throat, couldn't get his hands to stop shaking, couldn't keep his thoughts from whirling dizzingly in his head as he stared at that impossible image of his brother, arms crossed, looking angry, but those caramel eyes betrayed the look of fright. 

"Says the man standing half-naked on the edge of a boat in the middle of the night.  Real stable-sounding."

 _I'm not you_ , Ford wanted to say as he pulled his sweater back on, the image of his teenage brother with tears streaming down his ruddy face, clinging loosely to the edge of the pier flashing in his mind.  Instead, he shrugged.  "I never said I was stable, just that I wasn't trying to kill myself," he said, voice an octive high, betraying the laissez-faire attitude he was aiming for. 

He knew Stan noticed it by the thick brow that raised in question, but he was good enough to leave it alone, instead, he gathered up Ford's coat and boots and pointed toward the cabin.  Ford managed to roll his eyes rebelliously as he trudged through the cabin door, muscles aching as the tension seemed to melt from them, exhaustion setting in as he settled into the kitchenette, eyeing Stan as his brother deposited his belongings in the bedroom.

"I'll take the gun back," he said as he watched Stan pop a kettle on the little propane stove and pull out two battered tin mugs and fill them with cocoa mix.

"What gun?" Stan said, pouring a finger of some sort of amber alcohol into each of the glasses as the kettle warmed. 

"The stun blaster I keep on my hip," Ford said, mouth drying as he looked at Stan expectedly.  "The gun I always have on me."

Stan shrugged.  "I know _which_ gun, Sixer, but it's in the holster hanging from the nail above the bed, where you put it last night."

That...that couldn't be right, could it?  No, no, he had felt the electric hum of it through his hands as he aimed and hit the trigger; his palms still itched from the feeling of shooting it.  Right?  His head fell into his hands, fingers wrapping instinctually into his hair, pulling taut, the blaze of pain drawing his mind back into focus.  He knew what he saw, he knew what he did, he knew what he _felt_ seeing his brother disappear over the edge of the boat.  But here he was, sitting inside with a perfectly alive, non-stunned Stanley.  Had it been a night terror?  But it had felt so real!  He was sure of it.

"Whoa there, Ford," his brother said gently, pulling his six-fingers from his curls, grounding him.  "What's this all about?"

"Just a nightmare, I guess," he finally said, wrapping his hands around the steaming mug that Stan plopped in front of him.  He took a long swallow, ignoring the heat of the liquid, when it occurred to him that Stan hadn't been in the cabin when he had searched.  Raising a questioning brow he watched his brother.  "You weren't in here.  I awoke, hearing something on the deck, and you were there."

Stan shook his head as he licked the foam away from his lips.  "You're right, I wasn't in bed, if that's where ya looked; I was hurling in the bathroom.  These landlocked legs just aren't use to the sea yet."  He laughed glumly as he stared at Ford.  "But I didn't go up onto the deck until I heard you scream.  And that's when I stopped you from plunging to your death."

"I wasn't trying to kill myself," he growled, looking into the murky depths of his frothy cup as he took another swallow.

"No, you just thought I was," Stan replied tartly, avoiding Ford's look.  "Which was why you, he-who-swims-like-a-wet-cat, was going to jump into the water."

"It wasn't that, Stanley, truly," he said with a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose as a headache blossomed.  How could he tell his twin he'd thought he inadvertently killed him?  "I don't know what I thought was happening.  And for your information, I know how to swim."

"You only ever sound that....terrified, when you think I'm tryin' to off myself," Stan said coolly as he slugged back the rest of his hot chocolate, eyes turned down as a big hand rubbed the back of his neck.  "Which, I guess you have reason to.  I just...I hate that you think I'm _always_ that screwed up.  I'm not, Stanford."

This was not a fight Ford was willing to have at that moment as his head pounded as he mentally tried to go through exactly what had woken him up, and what he had seen on the deck.  But that would have to wait; Stan was cracking his knuckles, avoiding eye contact.  With a sigh, Ford reached out, pulling Stan's hands apart. 

"I know, Knucklehead.  My mind tricked me, mislead me, into a scene I'm _still_ not convinced didn't happen, except here you are, safe and sound - and, no, not because you tried to off yourself, Stanley.  I wish it were that simple," he said, running his hands through his unruly curls.  "There's just a lot to consider."

Stan flicked his gaze to his brother; his exhausted, bone-tired brother with the characteristic purple bruises under his eyes and thoughtful lines between his brows, whom held his head in his hands like it was splitting.  Without a word, he grabbed one of Ford's hands and popped a couple aspirin in it.  As his brother swallowed the pills down, he settled with just one word.  "Bill?"

Ford's gaze darkened at the question as he gave a nod.  "On one hand, I spent years constructing plots to devastate and wipe him from existence, but failed in my ultimate attempt, using a 'plan B' method to eliminate the demon.  I feel confident that he _shouldn't_ be able to be construed as more than simple memories, as frightening as they can be.  On the other hand...what if Bill found a way for his essence to exist still in this plane?  I don't know which is the more plausible theory, but I think we should go the route and assume that Bill may still be amongst us."

"And if he's not, Ford?" Stan said, a tremble in his voice.  "If he's not, and it turns out, we're chasing nightmares and illusions, and we're both just fucked up?"

Grimly he replied, "Well, I guess we'll find out together."

...

They set sail the next morning, pulling the anchor into position as Ford navigated the plotted course, and Stan stood at the front watching the choppy pastel waves with wonder as the pier and Glass Shard Beach disappeared on the horizon.  Ford's heart soared at the pure enrapturement that lit his brother's face up with wonder, aging him down in years as he pushed his face into the wind, silver hair rippling back, salt clinging to the curls.  It was the joy of a child, of an excited mutt with its head out the window, he saw in Stan's caramel eyes as he scanned the soft sealine, a wide smile exposing yellowed teeth.  It made him wish he'd done this years before, made him wish he'd _cared_ more about his family, rather than the anomalies that took up so many years of his life.

They stuck close to the coast, in case their patch job decided not to hold up against the open surf.  They cruised the open waters, Ford having typed in his coordinates into the navigation system as Stan popped himself into a hammock as the late morning sun bleet down, enjoying the easy ride and sway of the boat after a gulp of antinausea serum.  As Stan's hacksaw snoring started up, Ford tucked into the kitchenette with books splayed across the small surface and dug his nose into the leather bounds, eyes flying over the pages.  Flipping into another book, his elbow knocked an old leather-bound journal off, and a smile cracked on his grim face as he stared down at a yellowed photo of him and Stan, arms draped over each other with their parent's standing proud over the twins.  He picked up the book, fingers gently smoothing the crinkled edges of the journal with elaborate illustrations of all kinds of mythical creatures, one of his mother's hobbies.

It was strange how genetics worked, he thought as he stared at the picture.  Filbrick Pines had been a hotheaded boy in his youth, that signed up almost eagerly for the draft, anything to get out of finishing high school and going to a real college, at least that's what Mom had told them.  As a young man, he barreled into action without forethought, a very here-and-now kind of guy.  He worked his way through the ranks in the army through sheer stubbornness alone, until he had met their mother, and everything changed.  Filbrick retired after his second tour and became a businessman after their marriage, meticulously running both the psychic shoppe and the pawn business.   

" _You look just like Dad_ ," Ford had said with a chuckle, elbowing his brother, whom laughed it off as a flash of something cut through his eyes.

" _Don't say that!_ " Stan had objected as they stood in front of the cracked mirror in the Shack. 

But the truth was, Stan was the epitome of Filbrick Pines.  Despite having taken his name, the only quality that Ford shared with the man was his meticulous nature.  Filbrick knew if one sheet of paper had been moved in his study; he knew exactly to the cent how much money they kept in their shared accounts, and knew exactly where each penny went to.

No, Ford thought with a chuckle, he took after his flighty mother. Sure, Stanley got his loving nature from her, and even inherited the Pines gambling streak, and maybe learned the art of conning from her, but she was much more than the brash New Jersey native.  She loved deeply all things mythos, and growing up, had shared her old bound books and stories with Ford, taught him how to illustrate, and put the wonder of weird into his head.  Some of his fondest memories were sitting on the tacky parlor floor with a stick of charcoal in his hand, drawing elaborate scenes and monsters as Stan bonded with their dad over boxing lessons. 

A small smile tugging at his lips, he tucked the picture back into the book.  He had a lot of regrets in his life, and not keeping in touch with his parents more aptly after college was one of them.  But, then, he wasn't really keeping in contact with anyone after isolating himself in the Oregon woods. No one except the demons in his head, anyway.

The demon still haunting him, it seemed.

At least, he hoped so, anyway.  Which was crazy, he thought as he flipped through one of his many  alchemy books, pulling small jars of unknown substances and powders out of a bag, hoping Bill wasn't erased.  But if he was still existing in some format, he'd have an explanation for Stanley's odd behaviors, have an idea of why he himself felt like he was losing his mind, sanity tearing at the edges at each manifested illusion that took place.  He'd have an excuse for the sleepless nights he spent, nights that blurred and began to mirror those long nights as a fresh-faced researcher in his twenties.

 _You're a terrible brother_ , his mind hissed dangerously, the tittering cackle of Bill echoing in his skull.  Gritting his teeth against the image of the dream he'd had the night before, he pulled the silky, glittering rainbow hair of the unicorns from a little bag.  If Bill didn't still exist, then the voice was right, he _was_ an awful brother for imposing a demon's will on what was just Stanley's broken mind.  But if his nagging suspicion was right that Bill was lingering, someway, somehow, then he'd be an awful brother for not _trying_.

Damned if he do, damned if he don't, he thought bitterly, taking a some of the unicorn hair and plopping it in a small pan with water to simmer over the small stove.   He may not have been as gifted as his catty mother at making the potions and serums that littered the shelves of her tiny psychic parlor, but he'd had years of practice, and the determination of the gods.

Because, what he failed to tell Stan, was how afraid he was of himself.  Of how easy, how fluid, how instinctual, it had been to draw down the barrel of his gun and shoot, despite the visage of his twin standing at the other end.  Of how good in felt, like two pieces of a puzzle snapping into place, to have the sleek otherworldly metal of any of his various weapons in his hand.  Of how, in some small, disgusting part of his mind, he wished Bill _was_ around, so he could wipe the smug look from the triangle's face for all the years of torment and haunting Ford had suffered through.  Of how he insanely hoped Bill survived in some visage, because for 30 years he'd been playing cat and mouse through the portal, dimension hopping to escape, to plot, to ploy the ultimate plan to rid the dimensions of Bill Cipher, and somewhere in his heart of hearts he missed the tension of not knowing what was to come.

The scientist in him was rational and knew he wouldn't trade _this_ for the world; finally sailing with his brother, the brother he missed years with, the brother that was insufferable with a cheeky grin and terrible puns, the brother that had beat all odds of his past and come through, strong and fighting.  He knew deep down he wouldn't trade his time and relationship with the younger twins for mere _chance_ ; by the photos tucked carefully in his coat pocket, he knew _this_ was exactly what he had been missing during the time in the Portal.  But the bounty-hunter survivalist in him warred with the idea of comfort when the biggest target on his hit list may still be roaming.

It was a struggle he'd never admit to his brother; how hard it was sometimes being _still_ , feeling trapped in the mere day-to-day life that existed in their homeworld.  Nearly half his life, he jumped space and time, meeting interesting creatures, learning about cultures in alternate realities, fighting battles he had no wins or gains in.  Sometimes, it was nice to sit by a fire and read a silly story to a colorful smiled girl, and discuss the intricacies of various anomalies with his younger study.  Sometimes, he felt satisfied by the quiet sounds of research, and the proximity, knowing his brother was a mere feet away snoring his brains out.  This was home, and he felt like he finally was wanted, finally belonged, in a long list of realities where survival was his only concern.  But sometimes, he wished he didn't belong.

Either way, he was here and it was now, and he wasn't going to let his greatest nemesis destroy this life that had found him.

...

If "sleepless" could be personified, it would be named Stanford Pines.  At first, Stan hadn't questioned when his brother had taken precise measurements of the cabin while he sat near the railing with a fishing pole in hand, had ignored the chronic mumblings as Ford swiped his pen across the pages in his journal, illustrating who-knows-what, had even barely bat an eye as the scientist used a sweet-smelling substance to glue delicate pieces of unicorn hair around the perimeter of the cabin.  He'd seen it all before, growing up with a mostly-phony psychic for a mother, the potions and spells were nothing new.  And he'd seen this particular ward before, so when the archaiac symbols appeared in glowing form in midair before shimmering out of existence, it hardly phased him. 

In fact, he welcomed it.  Because then, if Bill somehow was toying with them, they had a safe haven on their small boat to escape.  Because, what he had failed to tell Ford was how afraid he was of himself.  He had yet to explain to his brother that the voices and images of cackling shadows that followed at his periphery had mostly subsided.  That the small bouts of desperation he felt were mostly his own, he thought anyway.  He hated that the kids and his brother lorded him as some hero, when all he had done for the world was cease to exist. And sometimes, he missed the blinding white of nothingness, the lack of responsibilities, expectations, and emotions accompanied with it.  Now, he had to worry about staying on par with his brother's genius, had to worry about being relevant in the kids' eyes.  And most of all, he hated that he made his brother worry about him at all, hated that he had moments of lapsed weakness, moments where his mind fogged like the sea and beckoned him to self-destruction.  And yet, a small, sick part of him enjoyed it, because the concern in Ford's eyes made him feel like he was home, like he finally belonged.

But now, it seemed, it was his turn to worry.  What may have been a three day trip to the Maine coast turned slower, as Ford explained he didn't want to put too much wear on the boat as they trudged into deeper waters around the Rhode Island point.  Which was logical, if he'd seen his brother rest at all.  Instead, he cooped up at the kitchenette with his scrawling books, caramel eyes seeming dark and murky, the thin skin under his eyes bruised and purple.  His hair was a wicked mess, curls sticking up at all ends as the scientist ran his hands through and tugged in frustration when his pen would come to a standstill.  He barely paused at all; when Stan made a comment about how sallow his complexion was, Ford had merely pulled the sleeves of his shirt up and found a spot on deck to plunk down with his books to read, soaking up the sun's rays. 

When Ford wasn't reading, he was attempting to blow up the cabin with various jars of powder and serums that he mixed with precise detail; maybe not precise enough, Stan thought, by the singe mark that marred the kitchenette after a suspiciously volitile potion had sparked purple and imploded.  One such potion was shoved roughly into his hands shortly after Ford had finished the unicorn hair ward; it shimmered metallic and shifted between the colors of the rainbow, depending on how the light hit in.  Ford watched him expectedly.

"I'm not drinking this, you dingbat," he had said as he stared between the swirling brew that had a hint of vanilla smell wafting from it and his eager-eyed brother.

"Why not?  I did, and I'm fine!"

"Inspiring confidence, you sure are," Stan had mumbled, much to the displeasure of Ford.

"It's unicorn hair brew!  While the cabin is technically a safe place, the problem may be from within," Ford had said darkly with a frown.  "This is just a temporary solution.  The half-life of the brew is about three days once ingested; it begins to wear off after that.  It'll hopefully give us time to figure out a more solid solution to our problem.  Go ahead, Stanley, give it a shot."

It reminded him of his childhood, when his mother would hand him brews before big test days to inspire confidence and brilliance, or when he felt a cold coming on to boost his immune system.  He even saw the warmth of her look through Ford's exhausted looking eyes, and he fought the urge to laugh at how such a meticulous scientist could believe in the hocus-pocus of magic.  But he gave a shrug and slugged down the concoction.  It had a delicate sweetness to it, like liquid frosting, an unsettling warmth like rum as it slid down his throat, and a hint of spice like eggnog...and then he swore visciously as the warmth spread all over and his vision burst with colors he was sure didn't exist.  He heard his heart in his ears before music swelled...what was that, techno?  A feeling of absolute euphoria spread through him, like being rubbed on by a million purring cats from the inside, and slowly his vision faded, tinged rose-colored as the feeling ebbed.

"What in the fuck," he breathed, feeling drunk, and high, but on _feelings_. 

"Unicorns are all about inspiring goodness, and all that," Ford had said as explanation as he guided Stan to a chair.  "It'll wear off in about an hour."

When it did, the sun was setting pink and orange over the horizon, and Ford was tucked into the hammock on deck.  Stan watched quietly as his brother sat with a sketchbook and coloured fingers that spread pastels over the parchment in precise movements of the wrist, adding a hint of deep blue to the sky, smudging some yellow pigment into the delicate pinks that melted into the visage before them.  He watched the paper in his brother's lap turn into the sky, watched as Ford, head tilted, drew in a lighthouse from his imagination, worked the colors up as the spire nestled among a rocky cove.  And it was then, in that rare moment, Stan realized the sound he was hearing above the gentle crashing of lapping waves wasn't a residual effect of the unicorn potion, but was Ford, humming something enchanting under his breath as he drew.

Stan had to pull himself away from the scene as he went back to the cabin and started cooking up an underwhelming supper.  If he physically didn't put it in Ford's hands, he knew his brother was too distracted to eat.  Despite how he'd inhale food, Ford never casually went looking for it when it was available.  Stan was sure it was engrained in his brother's head not to expect a meal, and that hurt like a punch to the gut.  So, despite his implorable bachelor skills in the kitchen, he tried to make sure Ford put something in his belly at least once a day.

He plopped a large helping of white rice in a bowl and dumped canned stew over top, garnished it with a fork, and went back onto deck, Ford unmoved.

"Supper, Sixer," he said, startling his brother into dropping a pastel stick to the deck.  His exhausted twin cracked a subtle smile as he gathered on the colors back into their container, and wiped his hands down the thighs of his pants, as he took the bowl and popped a forkful into his mouth.

"Thanks, Stanley," he said between mouthfuls as Stan dragged up a folding chair and took a seat, enjoying the silence.    Stan watched to make sure that his brother was eating, and satisfied, began his own meal.

"That's a nice picture you're drawing," he said offhandedly as he patted his rounded belly, full. 

Ford nodded as he shoveled the last of his dinner into his mouth, and laid back in the hammock, a content sigh passing through his lips.  "Our stop in Maine will be the last time we're on land for a while, except a quick stop to Nova Scotia to replenish any supplies we may need.  I thought it'd be nice to send it to the kids."

"While it sure would appeal to Mabel, if you're gonna give it to both of 'em, it needs more Loch Ness monster or aliens," Stan pointed out as he took his brother's bowl and stacked it with his.  "That kid is all about the paranormal, just like you were."

"He sure does remind me of myself as a kid, but he's smarter than I, I assure you," Ford said as he clasped his hands over his stomach and let the ocean breeze swing him gently.  "He's got a certain resilience and attitude that screams 'Stanley', and Dipper knows what's truly important to him.  Either way, I'll consider the revisions to the picture."

By then, the sun had sunk low along the horizon, the sky became a smattering of blue and ebony, the stars glittering along the edges of the darkness that swept over quick.  Stan watched Ford, curled in the hammock, eyes closed, hands laced together, ebbing with the steady rise and fall of his breathing.  He was sure his brother had finally, after days, fallen to slumber when his voice cut through the nighttime.

"Stop staring at me, Stanley."

"You need to sleep," Stan growled, crossing his arms defiantly.

"I can sleep when I'm dead.  There's still a lot--"

"You'll be dead sooner than later if you don't _rest_ ," Stan hissed and Ford popped an eye open, looking at him almost guiltily.  "This is the most I've seen you let your mind stop, the most I've seen you be still, in days.  That's not healthy, Ford.  You need to take care of yourself, too, y'know."

"I'll sleep when I'm tired," he bargained. 

Stan rolled his eyes as he gathered their dishes and started back toward the cabin.  He paused in the doorway and turned around, a frown on his face.  "Yeah?  Well, we're fresh out of coffee."

The whimper of reply was enough.

...

Stan decided, as they sailed toward the Massachusetts coast and Ford had still not taken so much as a nap, that it was time to bring in the hard ball.

Ford still spent all day in his research, mumbling curses to himself and ripping up sheets of paper in frustration.  During the evening hours, he left his books in the cabin and enjoyed the oceanscape before them.  The second night, he merely sat and watched the small waves crest in the distance as he ate a noodley concoction that Stan had thrown together.  He sat still, until with a wide yawn, Stan had retreated, and only then did Ford follow suit and return to his studies.

Tonight, Stan heard the thrill of the chords twang over the gentle breeze that blew through the open cabin as he dunked a hefty glob of butter into the boiling water of the kettle and poured it over the powder of instant mashed potatoes.  His ears perked up at the familiar tune and he forgot about supper when his brother's voice melded with the tune, singing clearly James Taylor's Fire and Rain.

Stan felt almost like he was in a trance as he climbed onto deck, tears pricking at his eyes as Ford sang; it had been years since he'd heard the course chords of the guitar easily played by Ford's six fingers, or heard his shy voice warble out the lyrics of some 60's hits they heard on the rabbit-eared television.  It took him back to sitting on their stoop in the hot summer nights, Ford strumming along as Stan crammed toffee peanuts in his mouth; took him to a time their screechy-voiced mother would join in after a glass or two of redwine and  serenade the neighbors. He was lost in his brother's rendition of the song when the cellphone rang, bouncing off the towers along Salem's coast.

His niece's bright face filled the entire screen, colorful smile wide, a moment before concern filled her bright hazel eyes.  "Grunkle Stan?  Is everything okay?  You look sad."

He smiled back at her, sniffling back the tears he wasn't aware had fogged up his glasses.  "Everything's fine, princess!  Just surprised, is all.  How's school going?"

Stan knew that was all he needed to launch the girl into a story so he could compose his thoughts.  He barely listened about a new student with delightful pink hair and matching braces _just like her_ , and could she please streak her hair pink, or maybe purple, this coming summer, because her parents wouldn't allow it?  He learned that she was doing very well in math, and was president of the karaoke club, a new establishment since this year.  He learned Dipper was still seeing the girl he'd taken to the movies, but they were just friends; he learned that Wendy FaceTime'd them, and Dipper still had lingering feelings for the redhead.  Apparently everyone in her class was jealous that she had a pet pig, and Dipper was investigating some anomalies around their town with a GoPro to document his adventures. 

When he'd heard all of her flush-faced tales, he wandered back onto the deck, and her eyes glittered in excitement.  " _Oh my god_!  Is Grunkle Ford _singing_?"

His brother's hands paused on the guitar at the excited squeal and he smiled.  "Hello, star shine."

"Do you know how awesome this is?  Someone else in the family sings!" Mabel yelled joyously to an off-screen Dipper.  But the excitement turned sallow a moment later, and Stan cursed; he'd forgotten why he had asked Mabel to call until that moment when she gasped.  "Grunkle Ford, are you sick?  You look _awful_."

Stan could see the twitch in his brother's eye as he took the phone and tried to smooth it over, but he saw the threat there.  "No, star shine, I'm not sick."

"You look like you did in that memory of you and Bill," Stan heard Dipper retort, and he could almost feel himself being set on fire by Ford's mere glance.

"I've just been busy with my research," he said dully, catching Stan's eye. 

"You haven't been sleeping!" Mabel exploded, the worry dripping from her voice.  "You _promised_ you'd take care of yourself.  You _promised._ "  Stan almost felt sick as he heard the warble in her voice, and Ford's head fell into his hands.

"I know, Mabel, I'm sorry, I just--"

"No excuses, Grunkle Ford!  There's no excuses to breaking a _promise_.  They're sacred.  I didn't ask for much!  Just for you to sleep, and eat, and take care of yourself, that's all, and you couldn't do that, and--"

He heard the tears explode over the phone and felt his heart ache, but he crossed his arms defiantly when Ford pinned him with a look.  He hated having to bring Mabel into it, hated hurting his little niece, but damnit, she got things done, even if she had to pull on Ford's heartstrings.

"Starchild, don't cry," he heard Ford coo.  "Look, I'm going to go to sleep tonight--"

"Now!" he heard Mabel hiss angrily, and could only imagine her little face ruddy with attitude.  "Now, Grunkle Ford.  I don't care what you're doing, what you have to do, I want you to go to sleep _now_."

"He still needs to eat," Stan chimed in, and could feel the daggers Ford shot his way as he grinned smugly. 

"Dinner and bed!" Mabel said with authority.  "Grunkle Stan, I want a photographic proof that Grunkle Ford has done both.  Understand?"

"Yes," the older twins replied in unison as she disconnected.  Ford walked by and jammed the phone in Stan's hands, growling.

"Bastard," Ford said as he stormed into the kitchen and piled a bowl full of instant potatoes, raised a double set of middle fingers, and slammed the bedroom slider door shut.  Stan let half an hour pass before he quietly slid the door open, to find Ford face down in a pillow, sound asleep.  He tossed a quilt over his brother and took the picture Mabel requested, before taking a moment to pop the top off a pen and lightly drew a dick on his brother's face.

Teach him not to listen the first time.

...

He realized he was asleep when he found himself leaning against the wooden railing of a familiar pier, a curse tumbling from his lips; if there was one thing Ford hated, it was when Stanley won.  But as he looked around, he realized the familiar was slightly different, slightly askew.  Sure, the sweet confectionary scent of Mrs. Harrison's seaside bakery flitted through his nose, taking him back to a time when he'd languidly licked the powder and sprinkles from his fingers after filling his belly with sugar.  The caws of the gulls mixed with the natural music of the ebb and tide of the ocean that caressed the pier's underbelly and crept up the soft white sands of the beach.  Sure, the misty, chilled air was familiar, kissing his exposed skin with grace, but something was off.

Maybe it was the dull, grey sky that seemed to wash out the surroundings, completely stripping the small town of color.  Maybe it was the quiet stillness; he saw no people going about their days, saw no cars travelling the streets, saw no fluffy little dogs being walked by the elderly couple down the street.  The stillness made his skin crawl, raised the hairs on the nape of his neck as he rested his hand on the butt of the gun under his coat, nerves lit with anxiety of the situation.

"It's just a dream," he told himself, but the feeling of something _more_ lingered.

That's when he caught the flash of muted colour on the beach and turned, seeing the two younger twins running in a hurry, the monstrous form of Bill chasing after, teeth glittering bright, tongue hanging languidly from his borne and bared mouth, slobber foaming around those insanely sharp teeth like a rabid dog.  Fear coursed through him as his study tripped over the shoe-laced he could never keep tied, dripped through his veins like poison as the girl stopped in her tracks to help her brother up, froze him like ice as Bill snapped and snarled at them.

In a moment's haste he lurched forward, heavy boots echoing eerily, as if bouncing off close-quarters.  But he was held back by  a steady hand, a hand he'd recognize anywhere.  He turned on his heel as Stanley came into view...but it wasn't Stanley.  Oh, sure, he wore the suit well, tapered just right on his broad shoulders, had that dirty silvered hair parted just slightly off skew with the routine fez in place.  But the smile was evil, the eyes golden, and Ford felt his stomach fall.

 _It's just a dream_ , he told himself.

"Bill," he breathed with conviction, taking a step back as the figure tilted a head, eyes gleaming.

But the figure didn't speak, not like the routine image of Cipher, that merrily spun webs with his vile tongue.  Instead, he knelt in front of Ford, hands resting limply on his thighs, the mirror image of Stanley sitting in the middle of a summer meadow, streaks of sunlight on his face, warm breeze barely touching the chill that ran through Ford's bones.  He shuddered as Stan looked up at him, those golden eyes disconcerting, pleading patiently.

"What do you want, Cipher?" Ford growled, fighting the shakiness he felt, fighting the urge to run because something wasn't right here.  And he realized what it was when a tear fell from Stan's eyes and his lip quivered.

"Stanley?" Ford asked, voice soft, disbelief evident as he reached forward, but electricity hummed along his six fingers a moment before the air sparked with blue magic and threw him backwards from the shock.  His heart hammered, he tasted blood in his mouth, and his skin felt like it was dancing erratically, but he knew he was alive by the whimper he heard that chilled him.  A whimper he'd know anywhere.

He forced his eyes to adjust through the blazing red fog that hung across them, force his muscles to follow his brain's commands rather than just convulse wildly from the jolt.  And he saw his brother, kneeling on the planks of the pier, face a mask of horror and fright, golden eyes weeping, but he sat unmoved, untouched, unharmed.

"It's okay, Stanley," he mumbled through crackled lips, forcing himself to his feet, ignoring the drumming pain at the effort.  "I'm okay.  We'll be okay.  What's wrong?"

The words were small and horse and made his heart still.  "Kill me, Ford."

"W-w-what?"

"I'm tired of hurting," his brother began, nose dripping, mixing with the tears.  "I'm tired of _feeling_ like this. I'm tired of making you worried, and feeling like a bother, and knowing it's all because of _him_.   I don't want to be his puppet, Ford."

"We'll find a way to get rid of him," Ford started, mouth dry as he took a step forward, but paused as the air shimmered with electrical warning not to get any closer.  "Don't give up on me yet, Stanley."

The image tore his heart in two of his brother weeping, shoulders drawn in on himself, but he didn't move from that unnerving position.  Is this how Stan really felt deep inside?  Was Ford getting a glimpse of Stan's subconscious, was Bill projecting these feelings onto him?  Or was Ford just simply dreaming?

"I don't want to wait," Stan whispered.  "I don't want to wait until Bill takes over and there's nothing _good_ left in me."

"I won't let that happen," Ford consoled, but it cut him that he couldn't get closer, couldn't comfort Stan, because of the invisible wall of energy between them. 

"I'm beggin' you," Stan said, looking up, looking so lost and helpless.  "Please, Ford, _please_ make it all go away."

"It's just going to take some time--"

"Shoot me," Stan interrupted, those eyes falling to Ford's hip where the gun sat like a heavy weight.  "Kill me, Ford."

Ford shook his head, hands shaking as he fought his own tears at how helpless he felt.  "NO, Stan, we'll find a better way--"

"You're selfish!" Stan growled, his voice changing, echoing, as if Bill were speaking as well.  "You _never_ do what's best for anyone but _yourself_.  Well, that's going to change!"

A gleaming smile took over on Stan's face as Ford felt his hand go to his holster.  He tried to ignore the impulse that was controlling him, fought with desperation as his pulse leapt into his throat, arm shaking, but despite how much he tried, his hand curled around the butt on the gun and drew in, finger sliding easily to the trigger as his arm outstretched, pointing it with deadly precision at Stan's chest.

"No, no, no," Ford moaned, shaking his head, body not cooperating with the yelled commands he gave it. He couldn't fail, he couldn't shoot his brother!  But he was merely an observer in the shell of his body, he had absolutely no control as his six-fingered hand cocked the gun and pulled the trigger.

And Stan merely smiled as he was hit and thrown backwards with a mix of blue plasma and bright red blood, the smell of charred meat and singed clothing heavy in the air.

And then there was nothing as Ford regained control and fell to his knees in a heap, tears pouring down his face as the gun clattered to the pier.  The image of Stan was gone, the feeling of despair had disappeared, and the sounds of the ocean returned.  Laughter, conversations drifted across the air from busy people skirting around him; the sweet smell of cakes and cookies mixed with the salt of the air, and the tangy, acrid scent of burnt flesh that lingered. 

But he felt cold inside, cold, and hollow, broken and vile.  He shook despite the summer sun beating down and soaking into his thick coat; trembled as he stared at the hands that had betrayed him, that had so easily shot down at his begging brother.  The wetness of his face twinkled down into his palms and he simply couldn't control himself as the sobs broke loose and he shook from more than just the cold.

He barely realized child-like feet had stopped before him, beat-up black converse until he looked up from his hands and saw the concerned face of his twin, brows furrows, arms crossed over the candy-striped shirt of his youth.

"You okay, mister?  Because you don't look okay."

He gave a nod as reply, voice betraying him for the moment as he reached out to give the younger Stan a hug, but instead the kid's face lit up like he'd forgotten about something, and pulled a crinkled envelope out of his pocket as answer, placing it in Ford's large hands.

"There ya go, mister!  Special delivery!  I gotta go," Stan said merrily as he ran off, Ford's eyes tracking him sadly down the pier before he disappeared onto the beach.

"It's just a dream," Ford breathed, as if reciting that line would change the fear he felt inside.  He swiped the tears from his face with the back of a sleeve as he stood, wobbily at first, having to catch himself against the railing and took a deep breath. 

He inspected the envelope; standard white, but on the front was his name in big bold caps, and it was sealed with wax stamped with an eye.  He popped the seal with ease, and pulled out a half sheet of paper, eyes darkening at the message.

_WELL THAT WAS FUN, WASN'T IT, SIXER?_

_DEEP IN HIDDEN DEPTHS, DO YOU THINK STANLEY WOULD PREFER THE SWEET EMBRACE OF DEATH OVER YOUR SHATTERED EMOTIONS?  I DO; I'VE SEEN._

_BUT YOU WONDER WHAT MY ULTIMATE GOAL IS, DON'T YOU?  COME TO THE PLACE OF DAWNING....THERE YOUR NEXT CLUE LAY._

Staring across the ocean, calmly swaying with the gravitational pulls of the world, light waves crashing down the shore, he felt grim at what was to come.

...

He woke with a start, the sick feelings in his stomach roiling as he sat up and rubbed at his eyes - eyes he found wet, even in his sleep.  Mumbling a curse, he plunked his glasses on his face as his eyes adjusted to the dim light of a faerie orb that sat inside a glass globe, the dull light a glowing purple that brightened in color with the waxing and waning of the moon.  But he didn't need the light to tell that his brother was snoring away in the other small bed by the reverberations that cut through the silence; didn't need the light to tell by the feel of the night that it was barely after midnight, and he'd only slept for a few fitful hours. 

 _Ah, well_ , he thought to himself, stretching the kink out of his neck and he watched the even rise and fall of Stanley for a few moments, a breath he didn't know he'd been holding passing through his lips as Stan shuffled under the covers, curling in on himself as he slept.  Ford gently pulled the quilt up to his brother's shoulders, let his hand hover a moment, fingertips barely brushing the warmth that Stan emitted like a heater, that small touch easing his insides and stiffling the utter devastation he felt at himself from the flashing images of the dream.

 _It was just a dream_ , he recited to himself as he tore his hand away from Stan, not willing to wake his brother, whom had seemed to be getting less sleep as he worried about Ford's sleeping habits.  A terrifying, abhorrently awful dream, but a dream none the less. 

He found himself silently easing through the tiny door and out into the main cabin, drawn to the bottles stashed away in an overhead compartment.  Chipping away a piece of ice from the icebox, he dropped it into the amber  liquid that he gulped back, the satisfying burn settling in his empty belly.

He poured himself another before sliding into the comfort of the kitchenette, eyes breezing over the books he had laid out from yesterday's research, but his mind was elsewhere. The pleading golden eyes of his brother haunted him, the words that tumbled from the broken figure before him.

 _Kill me, Ford_.

His stomach turned and he gulped down his drink, taking comfort as a dizzying numbness settled through him as he ran his hands through his hair, fingers pulling in habit.  He knew the unicorn hair brew had done what he assumed it would; kept Bill from his ragged dreams.  But the implications of that were terrifying.  Because then it was his own subconscious playing with him, projecting; sure, Bill may have coaxed the idea of that particular dream, but the dream demon had physically been no where in his mind, couldn't crack through the properties of unicorn magic.  Because his own mind recognized the desperation in Stan, the pulling depression; because he realized, now more than ever, how much Stan hurt, despite his cheap puns and jokes.

What frightened him was how his mind obliged to Stan's tearful request; what scared him most was how his subconscious didn't hesitate to pull the trigger and end his brother.  Because it meant a part of him knew what Stan needed most; because it meant that, one day, it may come to that very situation.

"No," he hissed to himself, slamming a hand down on the table as he shook his head.  "I won't do it.  _I won't_!"

And then there was the note; the quiet acknowledgement that while Bill couldn't impress upon Ford's dreams, he knew it was coming, had left a trail of himself.  A riddle.  And, despite it all, Ford found himself grimly excited.  And he hated himself for it, for so easily wanting to fall into the demon's game, for wanting to go down that rabbit hole.  But what choice did he have?  He hadn't had much luck on his own figuring out what the triangle wanted with them, hadn't figured out if Bill even still existed, or if he was just certifiably insane.  The place of dawning....hmm, what could that even be?

"You should be sleeping," a tired voice came, startling him.  He looked up to see his brother, rubbing sleep from his eyes, beanie slightly askew on his head. 

"So should you," Ford replied knowingly.  "What're you doing awake?"

"Heard a bang," Stan said as he scooted into the kitchenette, a huge yawn betraying him.  "Had to make sure you didn't fall or somethin'."

"I'm quite alright," Ford told him as Stan's head bobbed as he fought sleep.  "Go back to bed, Knucklehead."

"Nuhuh," Stan said as he eyed the tumbler before his brother with a frown.  "Nightmare?"

A shrug.  "Isn't it always?"

Ford could almost see the gears winding in his brother's head as he fought exhaustion and focused.  "So you're hocus-pocus potion doesn't work."

"No, it works," Ford said, swirling the amber liquid a moment before he took a drink, letting the coolness set a fire in his belly.  "Wasn't Bill this time.  Just my own deranged mind."

"Wouldn't be you if you weren't a little twisted," Stan said with a yawn as his bleary eyes browsed over the scribblings of the notebooks strewn across the table.  "What'cha readin'?"

"Going through some books to find another alternative to the unicorn hair, as I only have enough to make another round of the brew," Ford said nonchalantly as he twirled his drink and took a slug.  "And attempting to find a permanent solution to rid of our small demon problem."

Stan pulled a discreet grey journal toward him and flipped through a few papers, eyes scanning the delicate scrawl of his brother a moment before he raised a brow.  "This looks a lot like a diary, Ford.  A diary about Bill."

Ford's gaze darkened a moment before he snatched the journal away, lips turned down in an annoyed frown.  "I spent years documenting Bill's lore and dominion through the dimensions I travelled, including the stories that various cultures past down about him, in the hopes that I'd find a weakness.  It helped in the creation of the weapon that was to destroy Bill, if I hadn't fucking missed the shot," he said, glowering.

Stan pulled another nondiscript journal toward him, popping it open halfway and cleared his throat, a wicked smile crawling across his face a moment before he started 'reading'.  "It was a dark evening, one of many that the sky stayed grey and the wind howled cold.  And there was the figure, an isosceles monster, but was he really?  His glowing eye caught more than just my gaze..."

"Stan, stop."

"...It caught my heart as well!"

"Stan, no."

He dropped the journal back to the table, ignoring the daggers that were impaling him from Ford's look of dismay.  "You're too close to this, too close to Bill, Sixer.  Why don't you let me read through your fancy-pants journals, with a new set of eyes, and maybe I'll be able to see something you can't."

"That's....not a bad idea," Ford relinquished with a sigh as he pinched the bridge of his nose.  "But absolutely _no_ erotic fiction, Stanley.  You've been spending way too much time with Soos."

"Fine, fine," Stan was dismissively, waving a hand.  "But I'm _not_ studying your research in this cramped, uncomfortable kitchenette.  To the bedroom!"

Ford rolled his eyes as his twin gathered up the beat up journals and books from the table and went back into the room as he grabbed another deep pull of whiskey, letting the burn settle into numbness that made his fingers tingle and his head swim merrily.  By the time he had followed Stan back into the room, his brother had pulled the two beds together at lit up the antique lanterns that Ford had fitted with his eternal light bulbs.  It was a design that Ford had been skeptical of at first; beds on a sliding track built into the floor that could be rearranged, but one he was actually happy with, due to the extra storage options by the drawers on all sides of the beds that could be accessed when moved.  And, like tonight, it added increased space for studies that was remarkably more comfortable than being hunched over the table, something he'd been doing too often recently.

Stan was already leaned back against the wall in a pile of pillows, book resting close to his face on his chest, eyes scanning slowly over the page, concentrated when Ford crawled in.  He was afraid; afraid of what Stan may find in his collection of journals about Bill, afraid of what his brother may come across that told of Ford's character on the other side of the portal.  But Stan was right; he was too invested in Bill's destruction to look at his own research objectively.  The answer could be right there, and he may have overlooked it time and time again, because of his abject hate of the demon.  And that would cut like a knife; if he'd overlooked a solution to Bill's annoyance because of personal feelings.

"You know, you don't always have to be the strong one," a voice said, pulling him out of his thoughts.  Ford glanced to his brother, a brow raised, as Stan marked his spot in the journal.  "I know it's _instinct_ for you; to always play the hero--"

"I'm no hero, Stanley," Ford remarked with a cutting laugh, face darkening as he shook his head.  "If anything, I'm an antihero bordering on villain.  Everything leading up to the events of Weirdmaggedon was my fault; I was tricked by a demon's delightful coos and stroking of my own ego, I built the portal to our dimension, I didn't warn the entire family of the rift, I--"

"Stop blaming yourself, Ford," Stan barked.  "You did what you thought was the right thing to do at the time.  You found a way to fix everything.  And I know you don't think so, but the kids look up to you, and you're my hero at least."

"If only I had been there when it mattered most," Ford said with a sigh, only to be punched in the shoulder, pain shooting down his arm as Stan's knuckle's bite into his skin.  He hissed at the contact, shooting his brother a look.

"Stop with the regret," Stan said firmly, brows drawn down in seriousness.  "You're here now, and that's what matters, okay?  You can feel more than shame, and guilt, and regret, Ford.  You can be more than the tough researcher with the heart of steel.  You can be more than the impenetrable lighthouse in the storm, Ford."

He jerked, those words sounding familiar, but where had he heard them, the lighthouse in the storm?  He couldn't recall; by now, the alcohol had penetrated into his blood stream and his head felt heavy and his thoughts were like seafog.  He merely shrugged at Stan's words.  "What kind of brother would I be, then?" he answered.

"The kind that has terrifying dreams he never talks about," Stan said gruffly.  "The kind that's nervous about a demon, the kind that barely sleeps or eats because he's worried about some chump like me.  The kind that doesn't care about his own well-being; the kind that doesn't let himself fuckin' _rest_ or be happy."

"I'm happy when you're happy, and I'm happy sailing on this cramped boat with you, Stan," he said at last.  "I'm happy that, for some reason you actually _enjoy_ when I sing.  And I'm happy that you deal with my internal misery that seems to seep out sometimes," Ford said, letting his eyes close against the world that seemed to be tilting as the whiskey went to his head.  "But I'm unhappy that I have yet to find a way to save you, and I'm unsure if I'm battling a demon, of if I'm trying to save you from yourself.  And I'm very unhappy about my own misgivings and doubt about the entire situation."

"How can you even bother saving someone else, when you're barely okay with yourself, Sixer?"

Ford merely shrugged as he let his head fall heavy onto Stan's lap, the grunt that issued from his brother's lips all he needed as confirmation.  "No amount of therapy and psychoanalysis will save me from myself, 'Lee, and I'm far too old to be bothered with that.  Being accepted as I am is all I can hope to have."

"You know you can't get rid of me," Stan said as he leaned back into the pillows, setting the journal to the side.  "Even though you smell like a brewery and emotional issues."

"That sounds like a marketable fragrance for men," Ford said offhandedly with a chuckle as the world spun behind his eyelids, and he questioned his particular dependence on alcohol.  But the images he was trying to drawn out still lingered; his brother with golden eyes, pleading for death; his brother with a gaping, singed hole in his chest that he had coldly blasted into him; his brother with a slack-jawed expression as the pink mottled sky opened up and swallowed the nightmares around them; his brother with tears in his eyes and desperation on his face as he clung to the edge of the waterlogged pier; his brother with absolute horror and fear written on his scruffy face as Ford was swallowed up by the portal.  Eyes closed, his six fingers sought out the warmth of Stan's palm, the contact grounding him against the tidal-wave of images that seemed to ebb away as his hand closed around his brother's.

"Thanks for being there, 'Lee," he said finally to the silence.  He thought that his brother had fallen asleep, before Stan shifted, squeezing his hand and sleepily replied:

"What kind of brother would I be if I wasn't?"

 

 


	6. Minds change for No good Reason

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First off, I had to cut this chapter in 2 parts, because it was just getting really, really long - so I'm reworking those 3 cut scenes into the next chapter, which also means Bill isn't as BIG a player this chapter as I had originally planned for. Boooo. Secondly, I found CT&T tagged as "Stancest" on tumblr, and my heart broke, so I had the Stan's address this in this chapter. Look...I don't hate ships - I'm far too old or that - ship what you want, and be happy! But this story had no intentions of being Stancest...my Stan's are platonic, and nothing more. Thirdly! Ford's song this chapter is "Not Myself" by John Mayer.

Grey.  Grey, and warmth, and the absolutely feeling of nothingness.  Of floating through an endless expanse of desolation.  It filled him up, coddled him, held him tight and whispered sweet nothings.  And in a mind that was exhausted and overworked, a mind that analyzed the nuances of everyday life, and mind that never seemed to pause, it was a welcoming feeling.  To just exist; to just _be_ without the troubles of reality, to not worry, to not nitpick, to not be constantly frustrated on the edge of a intellectual breakthrough....or was it a breakdown?  It was the kind of emotional numbness that let him swim in passive thoughtlessness; it was the kind of numbness that could only be obtained by an emotional kind of crutch that twisted and burned its poisonous way through his veins.

Ah, alcohol, a dear old friend indeed.

He hated the catch-22 of the liquid drug; in one chapter of his life, it led him to the wonders of an insane, albeit brilliant, dream-demon's mind.  In the other, it acted to pacify the welling nightmares that tasted like acid on the back of his tongue that continuously pounded at his fragile and damage mind.  In both such occasions, it was a dependence that he hated, but knew he wouldn't give up, because without the means to kick his brain into the pause position after the lucid dreams he had, he knew he'd go certifiably insane.

If he weren't already, which was questionable at best.  He still was unsure of which reality was real, which turn of events held the truth; whether Stan were a soul lost to a sea of depression, or if Cipher were still a player in the game.  The logistics of both seemed plausible, neither bore more weight than the other, but it was still an equation he had yet to solve.

It'd have to wait, he thought as he nestled against the warmth his brother provided, falling deeper into the purring numbness.  Because he was content in the mindless emptiness that whorled around him as he floated through blank, obsolete greyness.  He was content, swimming in the fuzz of alcohol, six fingers comfortably tangled with Stan's five, face pushed into his brother's hip as he slept soundly.  He was content, happily walking the line between awareness and dreams, floating aimless without any welling thoughts about the travesties they may find themselves in.

But, that' be too easy, wouldn't it?

Ford found that the greyness warped, both expanding and being swallowed at the same time, but he felt _nothing_ as the landscape changed as a black hole spewed constellations against an otherworldly luminous skyscape.  Tiny galaxies rotated and glowed in the perfect abyss of space that made up his mind, stars struck across the  impossibly large universe, glittering into nothing as he gazed around at the familiar place, a frown etching on his lips.  The blue gridlines of the 3-dimensional graphs still hummed with a forgotten life; the intricate chessboard floated, pieces still in place from his final game with Bill.  Journals upon journals floated ominously by, rotating in place or drifting as he grit his teeth in expectation.

But Bill was nowhere to be found, despite the chill that raised the hairs on the nape of his neck, the tension that pulled his muscles taught in expectation.  And how could he be?  While the unicorn hair potion was fading, having reach it's half-life earlier that afternoon, he was still cozily wrapped up in the cabin, asleep, the unicorn magic barrier still in place.  Then why had his intoxicated brain drug him here, to a place he had refused to step into since he shut the portal down?  Why now?

Maybe it was simple memory, he bargained with himself.  In his hayday, the only time he drank to excess was to reach this place where he worked in tandem with Bill for the discoveries of a lifetime.  He could still feel the excitement thrum through the air as he had scrawled equations into the air, equations that he now ran his cracked and callused fingertips over, a sad smile twitching his lips upward.  He'd spent so much time in this place, so much time being wooed over by the demon he hunted relentlessly for years thereafter, so much time he wished he could simply erase from his memory.  But he'd given up that simple luxury when he'd installed the metal plate in his skull; now, all the Hell he'd put himself through was his to bare, and his alone.

This place had been a place of learning, a place of wonder, a place of.... _dawning!_  

"Of course!" he whispered to himself stupidly as he looked around, scanning the mindscape for any piece that seemed off, any piece that simply hadn't have existed years prior.  This was the place he had realized what his greatest research would entail, had been the dawning of the portal's existence, how had he forgotten that?

A piece of paper floating high above, edges singed with soot caught his eye, but it was the brief glimpse of image on the paper that made his heart lurch.  But how would he get up there?  It was instinct that grabbed an armful of journals that floated by from the air, instinct that launched him with a hop into the air to balance precarious midair on a few scholarly texts.  If there was something he was, it was a problem solver, he thought as he thunked down a book in the air and used them as a careful bridge to the spinning piece of paper above.

His six fingers snatched the paper from space, brows furrowing grimly as he stared at the image of himself.  It was a headshot with scrawling red otherworld letters boldly on display across the bottom that declared _Stanford Pines, interdimensional fugitive, wanted #1 dead or alive by Bill Cipher, all sightings should be reported to the Angulum Federation!_   But it was the man that stared back at him that turned his stomach.  While he knew this particular wanted poster had been  drafted and displayed across dimensions in his late-thirties, the man's eyes peering through the thick reflective lens' of the goggles were hard, cold, deadly.  His thick hair had the beginnings of silver at the temples and was unruly under the cowl of a cloak, and the five'o'clock shadow that graced his jaw aged him.  The cruel eyes that looked back at him were those of a man that knew he had nothing left to live for but fought anyway, fought because giving up had never been an option in his life.  He tore his eyes away and turned the paper over to the bold print he knew he'd find there.

_AREN'T YOU CLEVER, STANFORD?!  BUT NOT CLEVER ENOUGH._   
_YOU ALREADY KNOW MY END OBJECTIVE, IQ.  BUT DO YOU KNOW MY ULTIMATE GOAL?_   
_THERE COMES A DAY WHEN YOU'LL HAVE TO MAKE A CHOICE._   
_TO EMBRACE THE DARKNESS.  PLAY THE GAME.  OR BE A HERO._   
_TICK-TOCK, SIXER.  FIND ME BEHIND THE BARS OF MAGIC...THERE, WE'LL TALK._

Ford's gaze darkened as he stared at the ominous words, glowering back at him in vicious red marks.  Without a word, he folded the paper carefully and tucked it in his pocket for later; as an item that didn't belong in this particular mindscape, he was sure it would transverse into reality when he woke, r he sure hoped it would. 

As he began the precarious journey back down the staircase of journals he'd created, the world shifted, bucking him into the space of his mind.  There was a mere moment of panic before pain thrummed up his jaw, exploding into his head were a headache was already blossoming behind his eyes, and he stopped falling.

"Who the Hell are you, and what are you doing in my bed, you pervert?!"

...stopped falling, because he hit the floor of the tiny little bedroom, he realized as he popped his eyes opened and saw a hulking, redfaced Stan kneeling on the bed, fist clenched tight, which would explain the pain radiating from his jaw.  Rubbing a his bleery eyes he growled, "What the fuck, Stan?"

"How do you know my name?" Stan asked, wild eyes looking around, untrusting.  Ford's anger melted at that as he realized Stan had no idea where he was; it had been so long since he had a true amnesic event, Ford had let himself become comfortable.  Slowly he reached into his pocket, and offered the beat-up picture of them as young men with arms thrown around each other.

"Because we're brothers, Stanley," he offered as response, fingers going to his tender temples, trying to massage the headache away.  Stan looked between the photo and him, a look of dismay on his face.

"That doesn't explain you holdin' my hand in bed with me.  What....are we into incest or somethin'?"

" _No_ ," he hissed firmly, shaking his head despite the stabbing pain behind his eyes that flooded his vision with tiny white dots at the movement.  "Don't you _ever_ say that," he growled, fighting the wave of disgust that came over him at the idea.  But he also didn't know how he could explain that bond that allowed for casual touches to the forgetful Stan.  It just _was_ , and always had been, since they were kids, and until he remembered who Ford was, he probably wouldn't understand, no matter how he tried to put words to it.

Which is why he pulled the pink memory book from one of the built in shelves, ignoring the wave of dizziness as he stood, and plopped it down on the bed.  Often times, if Stan was able to recall recent memories, the older ones fit into place like a well-worn puzzle.  Stan looked at him in question.  "You recently had a summer of fun in Gravity Falls, Oregon, with our grand-niece and nephew.  Look through the pictures, and try to remember."

Of course, he had secondary motive; with instruction from Mabel, he'd added several pages to the end of old pictures of him and his brother he'd been finding through his old belongings.

"It's real hard to take a guy seriously with a dick drawn on his face," Stan said at last as he flipped through the picture book, fingers gently carressing over the glitter glue and sequins. 

"I...di... _what?_ "

He stormed out of the bedroom to the little bathroom, eyes overlooking the mess of curls that stuck up all over like he'd slept fittfully, ignored the beginnings of the knuckle-shaped bruise that was dusting his jaw in blues and purples, focused straight on the phallic object drawn on his cheek.  "Real mature, Stanley," he growled to no one as he lathered up a cloth with soap and scrubbed at his face, silently fuming.  "And you wonder why I don't sleep."

"Hey, I'm the one being taken advantage of in my sleep," his brother's voice answered, and he felt himself stiffen at the words, and had to tell himself to let it go.  He'd have to fight fire with fire.

"If hand holding is being taken advantage of, I feel a certain sense of sympathy for the various ladies of your life," Ford answered, surveying his freshly dick-free face.  "No wonder Carla broke up with you."

He watched Stan's eyes clouded over as he tried to remember, and despite the steadily throbbing headache that was plaguing him, he wanted to whack himself in the skull when he watched realization dawn over his brother's face.  It skewed as Stan drew his brows tight and a frown deepened as he crossed his arms over his chest, drawing inward.  "That's uncalled for.  Just because _you_ never liked her--"

"I liked her just fine, Stanley," he said, exasperated as he rooted through the cabinets for the tylenol, popping a couple in his mouth.  He didn't know if this was just one of his many routine migraines that plagued his existence, or if this was the rude beginnings of a hangover, but either way he needed to quell it, fast.  And, of course, arguing with Stan was doing nothing to stave off his throbbing headache.  "I only _didn't_ like her when she broke your heart and that which followed."

"I distinctly remember you bein' jealous since I got the girl after I tried hookin' you two up," Stan hmphed.  "Maybe you just wanted me all to yourself, huh?"

That did it.  Before Ford could even let a rational thought form in his head, his six-fingered fist struck out, slamming into Stan's left eye, eliciting a yowl of sharp pain from his brother.  A memory flashed at the sound; his teenage brother, howling as he clamped his hands tight to his eyes after a very similar argument about how Ford had been so moody because Stan was seeing Carla, rather than stay home with him.  It had been the same air of aloofness as Stan accused him of caring on some level that wasn't platonic that had set him off back then, and still struck a nerve it seemed.  And just like then, Ford reached his fist out - the fist tingling at the jarring it took - to pull Stan's hand away from his eye to see the damage; and just like then, Stan swatted his hand away, glaring.

"You're a sonavabitch, Ford," Stan growled as he shoved his brother away from the kitchen counter and, cursing under his breath, placed a few chips of ice in a rag that went to his purple and swelling eye.  "Completely uncalled for, fucking sheesh."

"You're birth was pretty uncalled for, too," Ford mumbled as he massaged at his temples, the migraine making his stomach turn in nauseous waves, making his vision burst with white dots and fade around the edges as if in a tunnel.  The pain was nagging, like a sharp drill from inside his skull, annoying to the point that, it appeared, he lost the filter to his mouth.  Regret filled him a moment later as he watched his brother visibly still, saw the quiet shuddering as anger lit like a fire in Stan.

"I didn't mean--I'm sorry," he said, trying to brush it over.

"No, _Stanford_ , now I get it," Stan said with a cutting laugh, harsh and bitter as he turned, ice still at his puffy orbit.  "Why you never could just _thank_ me for bringin' your sorry ass back, why, less than a year after I tried offin' myself, you were so damn excited to _leave_ and get into that stupid nerd school; you just never wanted me around, huh?  That's okay, Ford, the next port, you can just leave me there."

"Stan, it wasn't like that," he said, reaching a hand out to his twin's shoulder, but Stan shook it off like he had physically hurt him, just like Fiddleford had all those years ago in the lab.  Clenching his fist, Ford fought the immediate irritation that swelled, fought the urge to go on the offensive; he'd be no better than he was in his twenties if that was his reaction, here.   Couldn't Stan see how much his head was splitting, though?  This time, he put his hands out, palms up, seeming as defenseless as possible.  "I had a chance to go to a place I could be me, be with people that would accept me, and as a teenager that didn't seem to fit in anywhere at home, that was huge to me."

"What I can never understand," Stan started, turning to his brother, expression unreadable.  "Was why you never realized that you were always accepted by me, no matter what."

It was that moment that the pain in his head went like a white-hot knife to his belly, and he doubled over, nausea roiling through him, hands on his knees and unceremoniously he dumped what was left in his stomach on Stan's slippers. 

...

Despite how much they argued, the ugly words thrown between them, Stan couldn't leave his brother heaving onto his shoes.  He knew there was a lot about Ford he couldn't comprehend, couldn't possibly understand, knew that his brother's past was a dark one that he may never learn about, but despite it all, he still saw the sniffling little kid with the thick-framed glasses and the skinned knee that absolutely hated the idea of peroxide and cried every time they watched a movie where an animal died.  He still saw the brilliant teenager that lit up every time he tutored other students, that spent rainy New Jersey days in the psychic parlor, drawing elaborate illustrations with their quirky mother.  Despite the fact his brother was covered in scars, despite the fact his caramel eyes were deepset and dark like an endless well, despite the quiet withdrawn attitude Ford sometimes had, he couldn't help but lead his brother back to bed with a glass of water and tuck him in, because Ford was still his twin despite it all, and even though he'd never verbalize it, he loved Ford.

It wasn't a romantic kind of love that his confused, amnesic brain had assumed, finding another man clasping his hand in bed.  It was the kind that knew, no matter what happened, no matter how awful his words stung, no matter the distance between them, he'd always have someone looking out for him.  It was the kind of love that pulled him from the precarious edge of self-destruction; the kind of love that wrapped him up and promised to protect him, always.  It was the kind of love that held his hand when he needed a contact to ground him against the onslaught of his own fragile kind; the kind of love that nervously stayed up all night looking for a solution to the demon nestled somewhere in his mind, taunting.  It was the kind of love wrapped up in Ford's buttery, crooning voice when he sang along to the chords his six-fingers easily played, the kind of love that rolled its eyes against the silliness of potions and spells, but gulped back any concoctions handed his way.

He loved his brother, and always had, even when his wiry twin had turned his back on him, even when the splintered, psychotic visage of Ford and shoved him against a scalding panel in the basement, even when his weathered brother had stepped from the portal and tried breaking his jaw.  Because no one else knew how terrified he could be of the coastal thunder that shuddered the thin panes of fifties-styled windows, because no one else knew how insecure women had made him, despite his attempts at dating, because no one else had shed tears for his miserable existence like Ford had.

As Stan settle into the hammock on deck with Ford's journal's about Bill, a faerie orb suspended in the air to provide some visage of light as the horizon began turning a dusky grey on the eastern border, he was taken back to the end of Weirdmaggedon.  As the falling sun had filtered through in pink light through the shattered windows and holes that peaked through the weathered cabin planks, Stan had tucked the two exhausted younger twins into the beat up yellow chair with their snoring pet pig, a thick knit blanket tucked around their shoulders as they slept, sound and close together to fight the onslaught of terror that had been their lives the last few days.  They looked peaceful despite the atrocities they'd seen, heads together over the pink fuzz of Waddles, Dipper's arm thrown protectively around his sister in his sleep.  But it was someone else that worried him.

He found him on the porch, hands between his knees, six fingers caressing a broken glass orb, expression unreadable.  But he looked like a man that had the weight of the world pounding down on his shoulders, like a man that was lost and unsure of his place in the world.  And while he didn't remember specifics, he knew this man with the furrowed brows was his brother, Stanford.  He couldn't recall memories, but he did recall specific feelings this man invoked; hate and disgust and trepidation that they would try to save the brother that had gotten himself caught by the dream-demon in the first place.  Anger, and panic that made his hands shake and tears stream down his face in the blue glow.  A life-long joy that lifted from his chest, only to be swept away by burning annoyance and a pain-laced jaw.  Fury and loneliness among a coastal swing set.

"You okay?" he asked at last as he popped the top of a soda and took a swig.  His brother barely moved; those deep caramel eyes flicked his way, looking tired and weary.

"We're all alive, so I suppose the end of the world could have been worse," Ford said at last, turning the broken thing over in his hands.  "If I had just trusted my family..."

"Regret is for fools, and I may not remember much, but I remember that you're no fool, Ford," Stan said as he plopped down next to his brother, legs stretched out. 

"I suppose not," he said with a sigh on his lips  as he set the broken orb by his feet, and ran his hands through his hair, tugging at the delicate strands.  Stan raised a brow, remembering only that it was a habit that Ford did when he was frustrated, anxious, or nervous. 

"What's eatin' you, Ford?"

A bitter chuckle fell from his brother's lips as he tugged on those thick curls.  "What isn't wrong, Stanley?  You had years to internalize the shit we've gone through together.  And now?  It'll all come crashing back in bitter waves, and you'll hate me tenfold all over again.  And I honestly wouldn't be able to blame you for that."

Stan took a sip of his soda as he threw an arm over the back of the sofa and watched the first stars pop out from behind lilac clouds.  His brother - no, his twin - was at his side, trembling almost unnoticeably, but those hands with the extra digits dug in, clamped so hard on his curls his whole body seemed to shake.  He didn't know how to comfort the man beside him, but something panged deep in his heart that he needed to.  Finally, he said, "Look, Ford, I don't remember it now, but I know siblings squabble, and fight.  It's what they do.  I know in my heart, we've been through some shit, and I know it'll hurt when it comes back, and I know I'll be pissed, and I know it's not going to be fun...but what I also know is we're brothers, and that means being there for each other through thick and thin.  And no matter what happens after today, I'll be there for ya, Sixer."

It had taken him completely by surprise when Ford had visibly shuddered at the nickname that seemed to be the last straw that broke through the fragile wall the man had built, it had almost shocked him when the face that mirrored his own contorted as tears streamed down ruddy and dusty cheeks, but instinct had pulled his brother to his chest as he sobbed. It had been the first time since Stan had placed a precarious foot over the edge of the rain-soaked pier that he'd seen his brother crack and break down.  And, although at the time he couldn't recall any of their shared history, he had vowed to himself, he wouldn't let his brother cry again.

Which was why, despite the yawn that tried to lull him to slumber, he sat up and hunched over the scrawling handwriting of his brother as he scanned pages and pages on the dream demon that continuously haunted them.  Because he hated to see the creases of worry on his twin's face every time he looked his way, hated that Ford forced himself to the point of exhaustion in what seemed to be a futile effort so far.  So he squinted at the scientist's meticulous notes on Cipher, that started with his summoning requirements, how to follow the demon into someone's dreams, the brisk warnings that had been written throughout journal 3 before delving into pages and pages of personal encounter stories.  Stan cringed as he read, wishing he could just skip through until it started post-portal, but he knew he needed to know everything he could about Bill.

And what he learned made his heart hurt, knowing that Ford was so insecure with himself that he'd let a demon nearly destroy his sanity.  What he learned was that Ford was so desperate for any kind of attention, any kind of gratitude, any kind of friend, that although he recognized how toxic Bill was, he allowed the demon to control him just to feel like he was worth something.  It cut to watch his meticulous handwriting go from perfect cursive to a dissembled mess as his brother had spiraled out of control and the thoughts became more rambled and incoherent.  It hurt to read the praise of Bill, how he was a quality guy that made Ford feel included, that was his one true friend through it all.

By then, the sun had crept into the sky and he heard the cursing bustle of his brother a moment before the cabin door opened and Ford peered out, looking worse for wear as he clasped his hands over his eyes, sucking in an intake of breath against the bright sunshine that glared down. 

"Why is it so bright out?" he whimpered as he surveyed his brother up and down, gaze lingering at the purple that had swollen his eye nearly shut.  "Shit, Stanley, I'm sorry for that."

"S'okay," he said with a shrug as his good eye found the bluish bruise that was marching up his brother's jaw.  "You've got a shiner too, so I'd say we're even.  There's tylenol on the counter, and coffee already made for you, Poindexter."

Ford mumbled a thanks as he retreated like a vampire back into the dismal cabin, Stan rolling his eyes at the display.  He wondered how much of their exchange his brother actually remember, considering the immense amount of whiskey he'd found missing from the glass bottle tucked away in the cabinet. 

If he recalled any of it, Ford didn't let on to it as he emerged with a pair of shades covering his sensitive eyes and a canteen of water in hand that he sipped from periodically as he pulled up the anchors and tucked away at the captain's chair, typing coordinate's in with precision and charting their projected path on the grid-like map.  It was the first time in days the scientists hadn't merely come out to put the ship on autopilot before tucking back away into the cabin to his research, so it almost startled Stan the first time he got up to stretch and saw his brother still at the captain's chair.

"Find anything useful?" Ford had asked as he looked up from his maps at the shuffle of Stan's clothes as he stretched, cracking his back and letting the blood flow back into his cramped legs.  He shook his head.

"Bill; the novel, is actually more like Bill; the series.  It's going to take me a while to wade through everything," he answered as he ducked into the cabin and scrounged up a couple peanut butter sandwiches with dehydrated fruit, letting out a breath of exhaustion.  What he couldn't tell Ford was that he was sure that his brother's feverish scrawlings about the demon bordered on emotional, couldn't tell him how uncomfortable it made him to read those private thoughts of his brother, couldn't tell him how much he wanted to tear the demon from limb to limb by the clear mental manipulation he was reading through. 

Instead, he delivered a plate to his brother, whom grunted in acknowledgement as he crammed the pitiful sandwich in his mouth, having to slow his normal eating habits as he jaw clicked and popped due to the fist he'd been on the receiving end of.  Stan returned to the lower part of the deck and lowered himself into a chair, letting his legs stretch out before him as he ate his brunch.  Soon, the two had finished up and sat in comfortable silence as Stan popped open his place in the journal, and Ford plotted.

"How 'bout you play something?" Stan said, looking up at his brother.  Ford raised a brow, a pen poised over the maps.

"Now?" he said with an incredulous tone as he tucked the pen into his coat pocket and folded up the maps before him, having already made the decision to relent, it seemed.  The familiar guitar came from his pocket next, growing to its normal size by the light of a crystal.  "What do you want me to play?"

He shrugged.  "Anything.  It's just too....quiet 'round here."  Which was ridiculous, and by the amused smile Ford threw his way, his brother knew the same.  The waves rocked against the boat, gulls cawed overhead, splashes of marine life and the electric hum of various protective barriers Fiddleford had installed was the natural music of their live's on the sea.  But he needed to go to the happy place that Ford's buttery voice took him, needed to imagine that his brother hadn't been abused for years by a demon, needed to forget their furious argument the night before.

The chords struck, floating over the seaside breeze, quiet and calm, the melody calm and tired.  It was something he recognized, but not from their childhood, he realized as Ford's expert finger's worked over the old strings; and then he realized it was a song he'd seen his brother and niece listen to, feet tapping in time together, with shared ear buds between them.  Ford's voice melted with the chord's he plucked, and Stan found his eyes shutting as he listened, found that his own mental exhaustion was pulling him under with his brother's purring voice.

" _Would you want me when I'm not myself?_ "

"Of course," he said, or did he?  He could still hear his brother, remotely, like listening under water, as he realized he was asleep.  Damn, he hadn't been expecting to so easily fall into slumber, but he had been up half the night after Ford unceremoniously puked all over his shoes, so it really didn't surprise him.  He'd always had a weak spot with Ford's singing, often times was easily lulled to slumber like a lullaby when he purred out some song.  So rather than fight the heaviness of his body, he relaxed into it, letting those notes swirl around him and warm him from the inside.

" _Suppose I said, you're my saving grace_?"

That was laughable, Stan thought, even though he knew it was mere lyrics his brother was belting out with such confidence.  If anything, _Ford_ was the one that was his saviour, despite the fact his brother seemed to have a delicate habit of crucifying himself.  If it hadn't been for his twin, he'd be dead long ago; if it hadn't been for Ford, he'd never found his true calling in life. 

"Well, isn't that just cute; you think Ford is a _good person_ ," a voice said with a biting laugh, and Stan growled at the familiarity of it.  Fist clenching, he turned in the blankness that was his mind as found the triangle perched in midair, relaxing back with a purple margarita in hand.

"The only fault of his is having dealt with you for so long," Stan growled, grinding his teeth against the maniacal laughter that tittered out of the triangle.  "Why is that so funny, huh?"

"Dealt with me?  Fez, please," Bill said with a chuckle.  "He welcomed me, he didn't d _eal_ with me.  You said it yourself, didn't you?  He was infatuated with me."

"Only because--"

Bill quirked his eyebrow, leaning into the reasoning, eyeball flashing with amusement.  "Because why?  Because I fed into his ego?  And an impressive one he has!  Because I fed him the answers of the universe?  Because I was there, when no one else was?" he crooned, twirling the stem of the glassware in his hand.  "It doesn't matter _why_ , Stanley, the fact remains that, if ol' Fordsy was capable of romanticism, he would have had a raging _like_ for me."

Stan rolled his eyes in disgust as he crossed his arms.  "What do you want this time, Bill?"

"Disenchantment," he said simply, taking a sip of his drink through his only orifice.  "I have to deal with all your thoughts while I'm stuck in this measly existence, and every one that puts Sixer on a pedestal makes me wants to vomit.  You clearly know little about your brother."

"I think I know him better than you," Stan shot back, irritated, wishing that Ford would come by and wake him up in the real world.  This was not something he wanted to deal with.

"Do you, though?  You ever consider the theory that Fordsy wanted to start the apocalypse?"  Bill crooned with his all-knowing eye as Stan turned and glared.  "He was given all the warnings, and heeded none.  He knew the rift would be my hare bringing, and yet, failed to be careful with it.  Do you ever think that maybe that Poindexter was just waiting to meet me outside of the dream realm?"

"That's crazy," Stan said, shaking his head, not believing a word that the demon spun.  He knew manipulation; he was a conman by nature, and a quick tongue was often the best tool of the trade. 

"What's crazy is how little you know Ford," Bill said matter-of-factly as he tipped the rest of his drink back.  "What's crazy is how you think a guy like him could have good qualities.  He didn't get to become the most known, most feared interdimensional bounty hunter by being a _nice guy_ , Fez.  And I guarantee you, a _nice guy_ that fell into the portal to my realm would have been dead within days, if not hours.  But no, Ford survived, Ford _prevailed_ for thirty years.  And how did he do that?"

Stan shrugged; he didn't want to know.  Well...that wasn't true.  He was immensely curious about his brother's time spent throughout the galaxy.  Every now and again, Ford would slip some small anecdote about dimension 1zo9 into conversation, but rarely did he decide to give out information willingly.  He figured Ford would when the time was right...but it seemed like he was going to get a glimpse, one way or another through this demon in his head.

The scene changed and they floated together above, Bill keeping careful distance to stay just out of reach as they looked down.  Stan's heart jumped to his throat, but he fought the sick feeling in his belly, knowing that what he was seeing was just a memory.  In the center of a circle surrounded by creatures and species he'd never be able to imagine on his own, was a wooden stake nearly five foot high with shackles toward the top.  His brother was kneeling there, facing the post, arms bound above his head, a head that was resting against the weathered wood, back bare to the boiling sun that beat down. 

"What is this?" Stan finally asked as he looked the scene over, reminding himself this had happened long ago, just by the dark ruddy brown of his brother's curly hair without a fleck of silver to be had.  He also noticed that Ford's tanned arms had significantly less scars marring the surface, and his back looked nearly unscathed.

"The first time the Federation almost caught Fordsy," Bill said, flicking his glance to Stan as the crowd below split and a tall creature walked through in a deep blue militia uniform, badges abound glittering in the sunlight, a cat o' nine tails gripped tight in a black gloved hand.  "It wouldn't be the last.  But this is when we realized Ford couldn't be broken."

Stan was almost afraid to ask, but the words fell from his lips before he realized, "Why'ssat?"

"Because he enjoys being hurt," Bill said with a smirk as the whip rolled through the air, the small, metallic balls tied through the leather catching the sun as they cut through the air and smacked against his brother's skin, slicing through with ease.  Stan couldn't help when he tensed against the torture, hands shaking as his fists curled and he looked away.  Bill laughed.  "Looking away won't save him, Fez, it's just cowardly not being able to face what he's been through."

Gritting his teeth, Stan forced himself to watch as the whip cut through the air, found himself standing in the ring of spectators a few feet away, found that at each cut of the whip Ford's face contorted for just a moment as a number fell through his tight lips, and realized that his brother was being made to count each hit he took.  But what made his blood run cold was the slight smile and intake of breath the moment after being whipped he found on his brother's face; sure, it had to hurt like a bitch by the sweat that was pouring from Ford, and the way his muscles contracted and shook, but he didn't cry out, didn't whimper, never missed count as his back dripped in bloody ruin.  What made tears prick in his eyes was the small gasp of breath as Ford hung his head, the small moan that slipped on the thirteenth hit...but the look in his caramel eyes had nothing to do with pain.

Stan tore his eyes away, feeling like he was intruding on an intimate moment, which was crazy, wasn't it, because his brother was being tortured, not made-love to...but he couldn't shake the look in Ford's eyes.  He found Bill staring at him in amusement as the scene dissolved at a snap of the demon's fingers.

"I don't want you to think that Ford ever gave that part of himself up, though," Bill said in a sing-song croon as the scene changed and they were inside the Fearimid, Ford dangling precariously in midair with otherworldy blue chains around his appendages.  Bill's lackeys stood around, laughing as the chains pulsed blue electrical current and Ford grit his teeth, locking his jaw to keep from biting his tongue, like he'd been through this game before.  Stan could see where his brother's skin was welting at the site of the shackles, could almost ascertain blistering as the chains pulsed again and Ford rode out the current, muscles contracting erratically as the magic faded and he hung limply.

"This isn't going to work, and you know it, Cipher," Ford growled as he looked up, those caramel eyes full of hate, indifference and something else....something personal.

"No, but it sure is fun to watch," the Bill that belonged in the scene said with a laugh as he nestled back into his human thrown.  "It's kind of fun getting you all hot and bothered, Fordsy."

"You won't get what you want from me this way," Ford repeated a moment before the chains pulsed and Ford threw his head back against the current, a hiss of breath escaping through his clamped jaw.

"I know, kid, I've got other plans to break you," the Bill said as he ran a finger along Ford's jaw, and Stan had to look away as he caught the look in his brother's eye.  It was indecipherable, but filled with a deadly calm, the look he sometimes caught on Ford that made his skin itch in nervousness.  But under it, he saw something else, something different fueling that anger that was there, something Stan wished he never recognized.

The scene dissolved like before as Bill floated near Stan, the hand not holding the freshly poured mimosa running along his thick jaw, the same way he'd done with Ford.  "Awh, are you _uncomfortable_ seeing how Sixer channels pain into pleasure?  Real freak, huh?  Maybe that's why he's so damn reckless all the time, you think?"  Bill laughed as Stan swatted him away.  "But this little indiscrepency is hardly the tip of Ford's iceburg."

Stan wished he'd wake up as the scene changed once more, but he found himself standing in a post-apocalyptic ghost-town, or that's the only way his mind could describe it.  There seemed to be no one around, but there had to be, because he smelled smoke.  Following the soot in his nose, he wound through the cobble-stone streets toward the center of the small town, where a pyre was built, blazing high into the sky, with several dark-clothed individuals standing around.  But what drew his attention was a girlish, highpitched scream, and a figure dragging a young girl by the arm.  She looked sick; her skin was sallow and yellow toned with small little pockets of redness like the typical chicken pox, and the scelera of her eyes was bright yellow and blood shot.  And she was crying, begging as the cloaked figure drug her toward the other figures and dumped her unceremoniously on the gravel around the pyre.

"This one is yours, Ford," the deep voice said as he turned, a shudder running through him as he shook his head.  "You're the only one that can do the kids," the voice said before retreating back into the village to scout.

Stan stilled as his bother dropped the cowl of his hood, eyes deadly as he drew the hammer back on a futureistic looking handgun.  The girl pleaded, crocodile tears dripping down her face  A look of pity crossed Ford's face, and something else, something almost like misery as he knelt before her, ran one hand softly through her hair, cooed that all would be okay as he placed the barrel of the gun at her temple and pulled the trigger.  Stan stepped back as the girl collapsed, dead, into his brother's arms and, frowning, placed her body gently among the building fire.  And that's when Stan realized that the white, charred pieces that littered the ground around the fire weren't piece of tinder, but were bones.

"No," Stan said, shaking his head as he stepped away from the scene as it dissolved into nothingness and he fought the urge to vomit.  "No, Ford wouldn't...he couldn't....there's no way...no, he didn't..."

"Your brother didn't get to be the best, didn't get be the deadliest, wasn't the most feared for nothing," Bill said seriously.  "These are the faucets of Sixer you know nothing about, kid.  He's not just the intense researcher with his nose shoved in a book you grew up with.  Can't outrun the past, Fez, so the question is, can you really accept him for who he is, no matter what?"

...

By evening, they were docking along the island coast of Maine's Bar Harbor, going about the various tasks of anchoring the ship and sliding into their spot at the pier as the coastal sun sunk along the horizon, lighting up the mountain face in gold.  Ford had to admit, the whistling of the breeze through the trees further inland, the evening gongs of church bells somewhere on the island, even the bustling people on the docks and further up on the seaside street was welcoming.  But it was the smells of the coastal town's top chef's that had piqued Stan's interest and he hustled about with his chores, nose in the air like an excited dog.

"I think we need to get dinner," Stan said at last as his belly grumbled while he stood on the deck, staring longingly at the little picturesque town.  "And maybe even a room."

"And leave the ship here?" Ford asked incredulously as he finished folding maps and placing them in a little slide drawer at the captain's chair. "But all of our things, and my research--"

"Will be fine for _one night_ ," Stan said irritably, rolling his eyes.  "With all your charms and barriers, who's gonna be able to break in, anyway?  I don't know about you, Poindexter, but I'm ready for a hot shower."

"A shower would be nice, but--"

"Then you can stay here, and _I'll_ enjoy a shower," Stan argued gruffly, crossing his arms.  Ford stilled at the display; he'd noticed that Stan had been quieter, more withdrawn since he'd woken from his early afternoon nap, but Ford had thought nothing of it.  His brother was getting a healthy dose of manipulation by reading his writings on Bill; he had figured that maybe Stan just needed some time to internalize the early babblings of his twin's decent into madness.  Or, like he'd initially feared, maybe Stan was having second doubts about being on a ship with him after delving into the literature of Bill.  Either way, it made ice slide through his veins as he stared at his withdrawn brother.

"No, no, you're right, everything will be fine on the ship for a night," he said, trying to wave off the tension between them as he gathered a few supplies into a backpack and gathered up their recycling and rash to dispose of on the way to town.  He made mental checks of the wards at work, typed in the lock code at the cabin door, and sighed as Stan took the ladder to the docks hurriedly.

Ford sighed as he followed his brother, cheerfully waving to the other people among the docks, flashing a smile here or there, but he felt tense at each step he took away from the boat; it had become comfortable, a safe haven through their trip thus far.  And, truth be told, he was afraid of Stan being away from the unicorn hair barrier of the cabin and the dreams that his brother may endure.  But he relented; he knew Stan was more of a land-animal, despite his affiliation of the sea, and was used to the comforts that a small town could provide.  So he heaved his backpack high on his shoulder and followed his brother's nose into a small sea-side diner.

Stan made his way into a corner booth and pondered over the menu as Ford dumped his bag on the seat next to him and slid in.  He went through the motions, barely listening to his twin try to charm the pants off the waitress, barely saw the wagging brows over the purple eye that - thankfully, due to some anti-inflammatory serum - was hardly swollen at all, barely registered the pink-nailed hand that landed on Stan's shoulder and the coy giggle that followed. 

No, he was lost in thought about the intricacies of a demon that haunted him still, a demon leaving a trail of hints like breadcrumbs for him.  There was no doubt at this point that Bill hadn't completely been erased from existence, unless he was a lunatic creating false images in the absence, but he doubted even his broken mind had enough creation left it in to do the things that Bill was doing.  Which lead him to the next hint; bars of magic.  Which could only be the prison behind the unicorn hair brew that Ford had forced his brother to drink all of earlier that morning, buying them another three days of bliss.  But how did Bill expect him to break the walls of Stan's mind to talk to him?

Grimly, he knew just how.

"I thought you woulda ordered crab with how you were all over the crab bakes as kids" Stan piped up as he slid a mouthful of chowder in his mouth, pulling Ford from his thoughts.

He shrugged as he cut into the blackened chicken he'd ordered.  "I have a few crustatian friends in other worlds, so it tends to make it harder to crack open a lobster these days."

"More for me," he said as he drug the basket of blue crab legs to him and popped the joints.

Ford shook his head as Stan dug into the delicacy as he pulled up travel information on their shared phone and scrolled through hotel options.  He wasn't thrilled to be staying away from the boat, but he knew they both could use a warm shower, a comfortable bed, and a place to do laundry before they set sail to the Arctic.  And, truth be told, their stop in Bar Harbor was more than just to replenish supplies and rest. But, for now, he was going to keep that part to himself.

Popping a forkful of rice in his mouth, he watched the waitress sidle over with a heaping slice of blackberry pie and a wink directed at his brother, and watched the display with mild amusement as Stan turned on the charm and lowered his lids as he leaned into the conversation.  Ford could only roll his eyes; it was a routine he saw all the time in their youth; his greaser, muscular brother melting like putty in the hands of a pretty girl with a stunning smile.  At one time, he'd almost been jealous of how suave Stan could be with women - now, he was just mildly annoyed by the added presence of the waitress that laughed to some terrible joke he'd heard from Mabel once or twice. 

Taking the receipt from her apron pocket, Ford handed her a sizeable amount to cover the check and a tip and stood, gathering his belongings.  It may have been petty, but there was something more to Stan's flirtatious behaviour, something that left a bitter ring to his tongue; Stan had been quietly avoiding him since early that morning, and knew this was just another nail in that coffin.  Another reason to avoid being alone with his brother; another reason to avoid conversation. 

"If you're coming, we'll head to the hotel, otherwise I'll go back to the ship, alone," Ford said seriously  as he watched the quiet tick in Stan's jaw appear when he was pissed, and turned on his heel, not waiting for an answer.  It was childish, and he knew it, but damnit, it bothered him that Stan was hiding something.

"If I had a dollar for every time you cockblocked me, I'd be a rich man," Stan growled behind him as Ford started up the cobblestone hill, classic-style lanterns illuminating the darkness as they climbed up natural-cut stone steps toward the hotel, a place with picturesque views of the ocean looking over a cliff that also had the perfect view of the docks. 

"If I had a dollar for every time you bottled up whatever emotional haphazard crisis you were going through that caused the inability to talk to me about it, I, too would be a rich man," Ford countered as he took a deep breath and counted to ten, before stopping on the trail and turning to face his brother.  The brother that was gripping the cast-iron railing, eyes turned out to the unforgiving ocean, face dark, eyes lit only by the lighthouses lamp that strobed in the night.  It was the face of indecision, of question, the brief glimpse of fear and disgust he saw cross Stan's features that choked him.

He took a step forward, hand outstretched before pausing and letting it run through his curls, tugging ever so slightly, the brief flash of pain grounding him.  "What's bothering you, Stanley?" he finally asked, almost afraid of the answer.  Afraid his brother thought he was truly a freak by his scribing of Bill, that he was a monster after all, that he wasn't worth the time he slaved over trying to bring his sorry ass back into this dimension.

"That, Ford, what you're doing right now," Stan finally said, voice gravely as he flicked those haunting caramel eyes toward him.  Ford merely raised a brow in question, and Stan pointed to the hand he had wrapped in his curls.  "That, Sixer, stop pulling your fucking hair."

His hand dropped instantly, the slight stinging pain receding as he did.  He shook his head, confused, palms up in question.  "It never bother you before."

Stan laughed bitterly as his knuckles turned white, hands tightening on the railing.  "Yeah, that was before I knew you had something for pain."

Ford stilled at those words and he forgot how to breath as ice slid through his veins and dropped like a rock in his stomach.  He knew his eyes were a tad too wide, knew he'd lost his colour jus by how lightheaded he was feeling.  He shuddered out a breath as his mind whirled like a tape recorder, _when panic takes hold and all goes south, breath in through your nose and out through your mouth_.  There was only one way Stan knew that particular little secret, cementing his largest fear.  "That motherfucker," he choked out, voice small as his fists clenched.  "It's not like that."

That harsh laugh was answer as Stan whirled on him.  "Yeah?  What's it like then, Ford?  No wonder you're so damn reckless with yourself."

"No," he hissed, shaking his head, nails biting into his palms.  " _Stop it_!  You think it's easy?  You think I like being like this, Stanley?"

"Those scars tell a pretty convincing story," Stan said dismissively, caramel eyes pinning Ford in place.  "You yourself said there's plenty of self-inflicted ones there."

"How would you survive if you kept finding yourself hurt?" Ford asked, almost pleaded, as he took a step back.  "Most of my adult life was succumbed to some various form of punishment or torture.  Me, a bookworm nerd that barely left my dorm in college and learned to drive at the ripe old age of twenty-three, Stanley.  How the _fuck_ do you think someone like me was supposed to survive what went on behind the portal?"

"I wouldn't know, since you never talk to me about it!" Stan hissed, jamming a finger in his brother's chest angrily.  "No, instead I have to watch you _enjoy_ being whipped through Bill's point of view!  Instead, I have to watch you being zapped by Bill.  Because you won't talk to me!"

"You want me to talk?" Ford said as he stepped out of Stan's reach, forcing his hands inside his coat's pockets.  "Fine, Stanley.  I was caught once, and thought I was going to die after being beaten and abused by some misogynist race.  And as I lay bleeding, I thought, I wonder what would happen if I trained my brain to take the pain and channel it into something else.  So the next time I did.  And the time after that, until I barely felt he blood letting, and all I felt was _good_ , because the pain became something so much more; it became the anger and the rage that kept me going, kept me fighting, kept me _alive_.  So I'm _sorry_ that pain is empowering to me, if it wasn't, I'd be dead long ago."

"Is that rage what let you kill kids so easily?  She was just a girl, Ford, no older that Mabel even," Stan said, voice cracking as he turned back to stare at the ocean.

Ford swallowed back the cutting anger he felt  as he stared at his brother; the brother that seemed more heartbroken than anything.  He'd done a lot of awful things in his time beyond the portal, but he knew what incident Stan had to be talking about; Bill could only project the memories he had been a part of.  Ford turned to the ocean as well, hands clamped on the railing as he recounted the images.

"A small fraction of the Federation's most wanted had been caught and imprisoned on various charges.  One day, they came to us with a proposition; we would have one free-be, one episode to escape, but at a cost.  A nearby dimension had been overrun by a plague of sorts that attacked the nervous system, and essentially perforated holes into the brain.  There was no chance of survival once infected, and the Federation was worried about the disease escaping. 

"We were tasked with eradication of the disease, but the only way to ensure it was gone was by destroying the central-nervous system's of those infected with fire.  Everyone on that planet was infected, either in the late stages, or the beginning throes of it.  We were given a time limit were the Federation would watch, but would not intervene, so if our task was completed before the time was up, we had a chance to escape.   We killed everyone.  I killed that girl with as much dignity as death could allow, like I did with all the other children as well.  It was less suffering for them to die euthanized than have to go through the incredible pain that the disease caused."

"So you played God about who lived and who died."

Ford was tired; it had been a long time since he thought about the girl he'd killed.  "No, Stan, I was the angel of death in that scenerio.  No body lived, and no body left that planet, except me."  He could feel his brother's questioning gaze, and he chuckled bitterly as he stared at the shimmering waters glittering in the moonlight.  "I had been poisoning my body deliberately for years until that point.  I never knew what I'd come across in the various dimensions I'd travelled, and wanted to be prepared for anything, so I ingested multiple poisons to build immunity.  The others in the troop began to show signs of infection, and they, too, had to be eradicated.  That, alone, is one reason why I was considered the deadliest interdimensional outlaw."

Stan whistled.  "And I thought I had it rough."

Ford turned to him sincerely.  "You did, Stan, you had it worse than I ever could, no matter the troubles I encountered.  I, at least, knew you were alive; you had no idea if I were dead or not.  I don't know what I would have done in your position."

He expected a lot of things, but he didn't expect his brother to wrap his arms around him and lean his forehead against the divit between his shoulders.  Stan sighed into Ford's back.  "I wanted to be mad at you, damnit."

Ford leaned into the hug with a sad smile.  "As you should be; I've kept a lot of my past from you, a past that damn demon seems to be using against me.  I was an unsavory character that did a lot of terrible things, Stan, and I'm just not ready to shatter what bond we've gained with that information yet.  We've got a lot to repair with ourselves before we muck it up with the years we were apart."

Stan gave a final squeeze before pulling away and lighting up a cigarette, the end burning orange in the night.  "I should have told you about Bill in the first place.  Instead, I came up with the worst possible explanation for what I saw; I let the fucker con my own mind."

Ford pulled the cigarette from his brother's lips, inhaling the smoke deep, easing the nerves from his tense muscles as he watched the ebb of the light house's glow.  "Bill is a master of the mind, and has had millinia to learn the lines that are most useful to his purpose.  It's really no surprise he said the words that fed the doubt in you, Stan."

He shook his head as he plucked the cigarette from Ford's nimble fingers.  "I shouldn't have doubted ya."

Ford laughed, raising a brow.  "Really, Stan?  I'm not sure I would have been entirely comfortable myself being with a guy that clearly found some pleasure in pain."  He ran a hand through his hair, ruffling the curls rather than pulling as Stan just watched.  "I'll try not to bother you with it; it's just a tool for grounding these days."

Stan sucked in smoke, letting it fall from his lips in a bluish haze as his hand sought out his brother's, pinkie wrapping around Ford's extra digit limply.  "Yeah, I know a thing or two about grounding," Stan said as answer.  "We need to get rid of Bill, Ford.  I don't care how,  but the absolute _hate_ he made me feel towards you...what happens next time, Sixer?  What happens when he tries harder to turn me against you?  What happens if he succeeds?"

Ford shook off Stan's hand, only to link all six fingers with Stan's five.  He heard the quiet thread of desperation in his brother's voice, the small tinge of fear, and he'd do anything to erase the flash of panic he saw behind those thick glasses.  "Between your punches, and my intelligence, we'll find a way, Stanley," he said, giving his brother's hand a squeeze.

Not to assure him that all would be well, or that they would find a way to win, but to assure himself that Stan would be alright.  Because under the desperation and fear, he'd seen a gleam of disappointment, and knew that Bill was lurking closer than they both had ever assumed.

...


End file.
